


these stars will guide us home

by pinkcords



Series: once bitten and twice shy [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22551553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkcords/pseuds/pinkcords
Summary: And then he’s gone. Harry watches him take off his shoes, sort his belongings into bins, and keeps watching until he vanishes entirely, around the corner to his gate. Louis doesn’t look back and Harry can’t blame him, certain his expression, body language, entire being would implore him to stay. It would just make it more difficult on both of them. Louis’ always been intuitive like that, strong enough to make the hard decisions that protect both of them.Or Harry lives in New York and Louis lives in Wisconsin.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: once bitten and twice shy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622581
Comments: 70
Kudos: 400





	these stars will guide us home

**Author's Note:**

> Finally I've finished this thing! This was meant to be an epilogue to once bitter and twice shy, but it quickly got away from me, so I'm calling it a sequel. Thank you so much to everyone who read the first fic and commented - all of your kind words and support was overwhelming as a new writer in this fandom! x
> 
> Thank you to Nicole (@ireallysawanangel) and Jess (@oopsandhiforever) via tumblr for reading through this and sharing their thoughts with me!
> 
> Title is from Ed Sheeran's All of the Stars.

“C’mon, Lou. It’ll be fun.”

Harry can’t see him over the phone, but he knows Louis is rolling his eyes, can hear it in the tone of his voice as he says, “But I know how it’s gonna go. You’re gonna get me worked up, get  _ yourself  _ worked up, and then I’m going to whisper, ‘ _ I’m moving to New York _ ,’ and you’ll come immediately.”

Louis cackles down the line as Harry pulls the phone away from his ear to stare at the screen, lips parted in offense. It’s become a running joke now, a boy cry wolf scenario, where Louis mentions New York, mentions  _ moving _ to New York, and Harry, in all his naivety, breathes, “Really?” and Louis laughs and laughs and laughs. The first time had hurt, had caused a sniping fight over the phone, but it’s gotten old now, nearly a month after Christmas, and Harry’s learned his lesson. He doesn’t fall for it anymore, but Louis still loves to tease him.

With his brows pulled together (because it is  _ not _ funny, regardless of the way he can feel his face go fond), he thinks  _ what have I gotten myself into _ at the same time  _ I love him I love him I love him  _ floods right through, sweeping out everything else in its path. Louis’ laugh still makes him go boneless, still fresh after all the years he missed, yet more familiar than anything Harry’s ever known, even if it is at his expense.

It’s nearly the end of January, the time of year when it feels most bleak, spring so far off that it seems like a fable, a tall tale whispered about and never believed. Each day brings another arctic blast from the north that sweeps through Manhattan and threatens both man and beast alike. Normally Harry complains about the winter all season long, but this year he’s been mum about it, spending every bone chilling evening curled up in a blanket on the phone or Facetime with Louis, wearing a hoodie he nicked from him just before he’d left for his flight. Now, when he tucks his cold nose into the collar, he can only vaguely smell Louis’ cigarettes and after shave, an undercurrent scent that’s all Louis’ own, already evaporating into his apartment.

“I have  _ some _ self control, Louis,” Harry scoffs, but even he can hear the slight lilt in his voice that gives him away. No, he doesn’t have an ounce of self control when it comes to Louis and he knows it. 

Louis chuckles. “It’s just cruel and unusual punishment, darling. Not being able to touch you. And I’ll see you in four days anyway.”

Harry’s stomach actually flips, the way it always does when he looks at the calendar and sees it’s another day closer to his birthday weekend, another day closer to Louis’ first visit to New York City. He’s been counting down the days, crossing them off on his office calendar, since Louis had booked his ticket, already making demands about doing all the touristy bits,  _ but in a cool way _ . Louis had never been to New York, had never been out of Wisconsin aside from family camping trips, and he wanted the full experience. Harry had been all too happy to oblige.

“I’m gonna do it, anyway. Might as well be while I’m on the phone to you,” Harry counters, already untangling himself from the blanket he’s wrapped himself in. He knows full well that he’ll be sweltering in seconds if he gets his way.

There’s a pause where Harry knows he’s got Louis on the ropes. He’s either going to agree or he’s going to tell him to go to bed, the clock already creeping towards midnight. “Alright. But at least switch me to Facetime. I’m not missing anymore than I have to.”

Harry nearly throws his phone over the side of the sofa in his haste to click from the call to Facetime. Louis’ face illuminates the screen from corner to corner, his eyes looking a bit tired, but still crinkling the way Harry loves when he smiles at him.

“Well hello, gorgeous,” Louis says. The screen goes a bit wonky as his phone jostles, clearly getting comfortable on his end too.

Harry pets a hand down his chest and when it makes its return ascent, it’s under his (Louis’) hoodie, dragging it up to expose the butterfly tattoo on his stomach. He’s never been much for Facetime, but a couple weeks of long distance has already given him the opportunity to learn all his angles, how far to hold his arm out so Louis gets an adequate shot of him filling the frame. He breathes, “Hi.”

“Go on then. Take it off,” Louis instructs, sucking his cheeks in to hold back a smirk. 

If Harry thought he’d die for those cheekbones in high school, it’s nothing compared to now, dusted with days old stubble that Harry already misses and craves on his skin. Harry does as he’s told, never opposed to taking a little direction. He reaches back to grab a fistful of the hoodie, pulling it over his head and momentarily fumbling the phone in his lap. 

“Going to make me motion sick, H. Jesus,” Louis admonishes, but when Harry rights the phone, he’s smiling, looks like he’s gotten comfortable himself, turned on his side and his t-shirt long gone.

Harry takes a moment to just look, hungry for his skin and the tattoos that are fuzzy with the low lighting and quality of the camera. He’s still not used to being allowed to look, had spent every one of their hookups in the few days after Christmas getting distracted by just sinking into the moment and  _ staring _ until Louis would make a quip like the first time, tongue sharp, and snap him out of it. 

Christmas Day had been ethereal enough to exist only inside a dream. Harry had woken to the entire room cast in the soft glow of dawn, tinted blue with the fresh snowfall outside. The flurries they’d walked through the evening before had turned to heavy flakes overnight, dumping enough snow to collect on the windowsills and blanket the entire town, turning it clean and virgin once more. Louis’ arm had been heavy around his waist, warm and solid and real, and Harry had blinked several times to ensure he was awake, that he wasn’t living inside a snowglobe where magic like this only existed.

When Louis had awoken, it had been a long, lazy morning of kisses, soaking one another in and keeping the chill out, tucked into the duvet pulled up to the tops of their heads. Every touch, every whisper, had sent Harry’s heart beating out of control, a shiver of affection climbing down his spine that threatened his even breathing. But then Louis would lean in, bump their noses together with a sleepy smile, and Harry would melt into one kiss that turned into a dozen, and another hour would be lost. Louis had returned the favor and introduced Harry to the warm, wet ecstasy of his mouth, his hands fisting in the sheets so hard he pulled them from the corners of the mattress. He’d bitten down on his wrist to stifle the cry when he came and had worn a ring of teeth marks on his skin the rest of the day, resigned to being useless.

Only when his mom called up the stairs about Christmas morning brunch did they drag themselves from the covers, pawing at one another with laughter as they grabbed joggers and t-shirts, mismatched between the two of them, and shuffled downstairs, sheepish smiles an answer to his family’s knowing expressions. Harry had pulled the sleeve down over his wrist, tucked the cuff into his palm and held it there all through breakfast.

A few days later, after being holed up in one another’s childhood rooms with hands pressed over their mouths and a rushed handjob in the bathroom of Poh’s, Harry had flown back to New York. And Harry had  _ missed _ him, so painfully, that if he didn’t put a hand over his heart and feel it beating in his chest, he would have been sure he lost it somewhere over Michigan on his journey back. He’d been more gutted about missing out on a New Year’s kiss than he ever had in his life, adamant that it was a bad omen for the start of their relationship (at least Harry  _ hoped _ that’s where they were headed) when Louis had insisted it was fine. He was probably going to be working at Poh’s anyway, Louis had promised him. Even if Harry had been in town, he’d have had to settle for kissing Louis across the bar at the stroke of midnight, possibly with Tim looking on, instead of whatever romance he’d already started crafting in his mind.

Over the phone a few days later, Harry had sounded so lovesick and forlorn that Louis had made the suggestion to visit for his birthday. They’d fought for a good fifteen minutes about the cost, but in the end, Harry had given in, told Louis he could pay for it, then bought it himself anyway while Louis was rubbing his victory in Harry’s face. Louis was  _ not _ pleased, but it was difficult to stay angry, Harry supposed, when there was a tangible date on the calendar to see one another again. 

“God, you’re so lovely,” Louis breathes when Harry rights his phone again, holding it out by his bent knees so that all of his stomach and chest is on display. 

Harry loves the praise, loves the hitch in Louis’ breathing that crackles over Facetime. He might be the one that stares with reckless abandon, but Louis does too, in his own subtle way, eyelids hooded with tiredness, but his pupils blown with interest and arousal. Harry thinks he could get off on Louis watching him alone, his cock already twitching in his sweats, interested and fighting for real estate in his briefs. 

“Miss touching you,” Harry answers, so obvious that Louis chuckles. Instead, Harry touches himself, palming at his cock, squeezing through the fabric, just enough pressure and friction to bring himself fully hard and make him rock his hips up from the sofa.

There’s a rustle on Louis’ end as he rolls onto his back, the dim lighting in his room casting a glow on just half of his face. “That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice low. “Bet you’re already so hard. Lemme see.”

Harry has to stop touching himself long enough to lift his hips and clumsily work his sweatpants and boxers down one handed. His cock springs up and lands hard against his belly, his sweats a tangled mess around his thighs. Instead of immediately wrapping a hand around his cock like he wants, he scratches across his stomach, not at all surprised to find it damp with precome, turned on and wound tight by Louis’ unwavering gaze. 

“So hard, Lou. The way you look at me,” he whines. 

“Touch yourself for me, H,” Louis instructs, licking over his lips.

Harry sighs in relief and reaches for his cock, fingers creating a tight circle intent on building a steady pace. But then Louis speaks again. “Ah ah,” he tuts. “ _ Slowly _ .” 

Harry huffs, his eyes closing to recenter himself. He loosens his grip on his cock, teases from the base to tip tantalizingly slow, thumb circling around and over the head before descending down once again, precome easing the slide. Louis hums his approval, so Harry does it again, his abs jumping with the effort it takes to control himself. 

“Look at that cock. Fuck, felt so good in my mouth, down my throat. The way you tasted… can’t get it out of my head,” Louis tells him, reasonably still in frame aside from the way he leans a little closer. “Faster now.” 

Harry’s hand chokes up on his cock, squeezing at the bottom as he repeats the same practiced strokes with speed, wrist twisting on the way up. It’s not fair, he thinks, the way Louis can lay there and watch him and be entirely unaffected. But then he sees the shimmer of sweat on Louis’ forehead where the light catches it, the tiny shake in his shoulder that tells Harry his right hand is very much  _ not _ unoccupied. Harry smirks, turns up the volume on his moans as he arches, bucking his hips into his hand so his fist slaps his pelvis when they meet. 

“Lou,” he pants, the edges of his brain starting to blur with pleasure. It rockets up and down his spine, burning heat building between his legs and tugging deep in the pit of his stomach. “Close, ‘m  _ close. _ ”

Louis just nods rapidly, lips parted around a soft moan that not even he can repress. “Yeah, babe. Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles incoherently. “C’mon. Wanna see it again. Fuck, miss the way you look.”

That all but does it for Harry. His hips jerk, the tight circle of his thumb and forefinger twist around his cockhead, and he comes, shooting up his stomach and encroaching on his chest. It lands on his butterfly, an opaque cloud over black ink, and Harry works his hand, coaxes every drop, until it’s nearly painful. 

He’s just coming down, eyes opening and refocusing on his living room once again, when he hears Louis’ telltale groan, head thrown back into his pillow. The cords of his neck stand out with the tension in his body and Harry is overcome with the urge to  _ bite _ , to suck his skin between his teeth and claim him while he comes. It’s torture to be so far from him. 

“Told you. Was a good idea,” he says instead, still breathless as he watches Louis’ body go slack. 

Louis, bless him, still has the energy to roll his eyes. “Yeah, wasn’t bad,” he agrees, but his lips are turned up in the corner, giving him away. 

They’re quiet after that, just watching each other breathe and find a quiet calm again. Louis’ thumb swipes over the screen and Harry knows he’s touching the image of his face, finding at least a little comfort in the gesture when they’re so far apart. 

“Four days,” Harry murmurs, eyes soft as they track Louis’ face, taking in every little detail that still translates over Facetime: Louis’ eyelashes, the patch of freckles on his cheek, his bottom lip slightly swollen, bitten sometime over the course of the last fifteen minutes. 

“Four days,” Louis answers, drawing an ‘X’ over his chest in promise. “Get some rest, H. You still gotta work tomorrow.” 

Harry reluctantly agrees. In four days, Louis will be here, in the flesh, but he still has four days at the label to get through, four days of contracts and artist meetings. 

“See you. Miss you,” he says. His heart twists in the way it always does when he has to say goodbye, when their calls end. It feels like a stitch, sharp and painful, as if he’d just run five miles too hard and too fast. 

“Miss you, baby. Be good,” Louis says. He kisses his fingertips and presses them to the screen. 

Harry smiles, his thumb hovering over the red end button, and tacks on a quick, “Love you.” 

He rips the bandaid off before Louis can answer and ends the call. Even with their feelings and affection out in the open, it still feels precarious, a tiny, niggling insecurity that makes Harry worry Louis won’t say it back, that even if he feels it, he’s not ready to say it. 

After staring at the ceiling, lost in thoughts that stumble over one another in rapid succession, he cleans himself up with his t-shirt, pulls his sweats back up, and sends himself to bed. He finds it lonely like he always has, but wraps himself in the comfort of four short days, smoothing his hand over the vacant side of the bed that awaits Louis. 

x

The rest of the week drags on in a way that Harry’s never experienced before. Typically, he’s sitting in his office until 7 or 8pm, reviewing contracts and documents that he didn’t have a chance to get to during the day, plagued with back to back meetings that steal him away from doing real work. It’s not uncommon that Friday will roll around and he’ll order dinner to his office, wishing he had one more day in the week or a few more hours in the day to complete everything on his plate, a never ending to-do list. 

His attention had been shot all week, his mind drifting while he slowly audited the paperwork that came across his desk in waves. He should have been focusing, but he found himself instead tapping his highlighter in some nameless rhythm, eyes glancing at his phone as he waited for another text from Louis. In the moments he hadn’t been trying his hand at mind control, willing his phone to vibrate with a new message, he’d been making a mental list of all the places he wanted to take Louis that weekend. He doesn’t really care that it’s his birthday weekend; it’s more about Louis, his first visit to New York. Harry’s determined to show him a good time, maybe plant the seed that New York could fit Louis too if he gave her a chance. 

It’s Friday, close to 4pm, and he’s anxiously biting at the edge of his thumb, knowing Louis’ flight gets in at JFK just after 5. Louis had sent him a text over two hours ago with a photo of frozen Green Bay, framed by the airport windows, a thumbs up emoji, and  _ see you soon, babes xx.  _ Harry had smiled to himself dumbly for a good three minutes, finally urging his thumbs into action and shooting back  _ safe flight x.  _

However, despite their running text chain and phone conversations every night that span hours, Harry has to admit he’s a bit nervous to see him again, face to face, irrationally concerned it will be different than it was when he’d been in Wisconsin. It’s stupid, he knows it is, but it doesn’t prevent his chest from feeling like someone’s sitting on it, worry spiraling through his veins. He makes it until 4:05 before he’s jumping up from his desk, snagging his laptop and calling the week done. He’d rather pace and wait and drive himself crazy at JFK than do it behind his desk. 

Traffic is heavy like it always is and Harry rests his forehead against the window, watching his surroundings crawl by as they make their way to the airport. It’s an awful evening to welcome Louis to New York, ice cold drizzle that sounds like sand against the window and a howling wind that cuts through his coat like its made of butter. He doesn’t have much planned for tonight aside from keeping the heat cranked high while they, undoubtedly, argue over where to order takeout from. Harry has his favorites all over New York, but Louis’ never without an opinion.

JFK is busy with the travel weary arriving home at last, and Harry finds some of his nervous energy dissipates while he waits at Louis’ gate, people watching. There’s a girl who looks like she goes to art school, a large black portfolio resting against the side of her seat, and an elderly couple, the woman fussing over crumbs spilled down her husband’s front from the muffin he’s just eaten. It makes Harry smile, that so many people exist in the world and are living their own story, just like he is, sitting there wound tight with anticipation, ready to spring across the aisle like a rubberband the moment he sees Louis. 

Harry jumps when he feels his phone vibrate, ripping it from his pocket with so much haste that he stops breathing. 

_ Louis (5:11PM): get me off this fucking plane  _

_ Louis (5:11PM): screaming children _

_ Louis (5:11PM): the entire flight _

He laughs, drawing some attention to himself as a few people look up. He quickly shakes his head, tapping out a text. 

_ Harry (5:13PM): You literally grew up in a house full of screaming children. I’d think you’d be used to it by now.  _

_ Louis (5:14PM): nkt the same thing. wanted to enjoy my flight in peace _

_ Louis (5:14PM): not* _

_ Louis (5:15PM): how am i getting to urs? _

Harry laughs again, then just smiles, wide enough he can feel the dimple in his cheek pop. He’d tried making plans for Louis’ pickup with him, but Louis had scoffed, assuring him he was a grown adult and could figure out how to get a taxi himself. Besides, weren’t taxis classic New York? Harry had been unable to help himself anyway. 

_ Harry (5:16PM): Get off the plane and find out.  _

Harry pockets his phone after that, sits back in his chair and bites the inside of his cheek as he waits, one knee bouncing up and down fast enough to annoy himself. His head snaps to attention when the door to the jetway is opened, the first few passengers making their way into the airport, hurriedly rushing past. None of them have the blue eyes or messy fringe that he knows by heart and as the stream of people starts to thin, Harry’s stomach drops. Is he at the wrong gate? He scrambles for his phone again, double checking Louis’ flight confirmation. 

“Missed me so much you couldn’t let me take a taxi?” 

Harry looks up at the voice, watches Louis approach with his carry on in tow. He looks a bit worse for wear for a two hour flight, but his smile is wide and radiating joy and Harry, well. He’s on him before he can even register what he’s doing, long arms circling his waist and shoulders to tug him close. He only leaves enough space to crush his lips against Louis’ cheek, feeling it bunch under his mouth with the grin plastered on Louis’ face. 

“That the best you’ve got? You know I did fly here all the way from-“ Louis starts, but it’s Harry’s turn to tell him, “Shut up,” right against his lips as he lifts his hands to either side of his jaw and kisses him. 

It’s not a romantic run and jump into arms kind of reunion, but it’s pretty damn close in Harry’s opinion, all his senses acutely attuned to Louis and Louis only, heightened by a month apart. The other departing passengers part around them as they kiss, standing right in the middle of the aisle as Louis’ hands grip Harry’s coat at the small of his back. Harry doesn’t want to let him go, so he doesn’t, just brushes his thumbs over his cheeks and teases at his lips with his tongue.

Louis breaks the kiss in the end, leaning up on his toes to nip Harry’s bottom lip, cheeks flushed at the public display, but his smile still blinding. 

“Let’s go. I can still hear those children,” he jokes, but his voice is soft, spoken just within the bubble they’re both occupying. 

“Give me that,” Harry offers, reaching for the handle of his suitcase. Louis rolls his eyes, but turns it over anyway, settling his hand into Harry’s opposite as they head for the exit. “It’s a bit nasty out, fair warning. Sleet.”

Louis looks over at him, amused. “You know I grew up in Wisconsin, right? The last ten years hasn’t erased that much?”

“Well! I just wanted your first visit to be nice, you know? Cold and crisp. Not… cold and wet,” Harry says, his bottom lip threatening a pout.

Louis interjects before he can. “It’s alright, love. I’m sure the weather will clear up while I’m here. And even if it doesn’t, who cares? I’m here for you, not the weather.”

Harry feels himself soften, relax. All his earlier nerves and anxiety, his crippling desire to make things perfect, have all but vacated and Louis’ reassurance helps to kick the last to the curb. Things are still easy, comfortable, and Harry finds himself smiling down at his expensive boots. 

“What?” Louis asks, leaning sideways to nudge him. 

Harry shrugs, shakes his head and fights the smile that’s still lighting up his face. “Nothing. Just really happy you’re here. Just really looking forward to this weekend.” 

Louis smiles his response, but he mirrors Harry’s behavior, looking down at his Adidas trainers with a dopey, pleased expression.

Outside, the freezing rain really hasn’t let up at all, still gusting across the pavement in visible sheets. Harry wrinkles his nose up, grateful the car he arrived in is pulling back around to the arrivals curb, sleek and black and already warm inside. It’s a normal way to travel from place to place within New York for Harry, Columbia footing the bill for all his transportation, but Louis’ eyebrows shoot into his fringe when he realizes it’s meant for them. 

“That is not a taxi,” Louis points out, his eyes growing in size as a man with fuzzy grey muttonchop sideburns takes his suitcase. 

Harry snorts, shaking his head. “Believe me, this is better. Lou, this is Arthur. He gets me where I need to go.”

“You have a  _ chauffeur?”  _ Louis scoffs, but immediately bites his tongue, holding a hand out politely to introduce himself to Arthur. “Louis.”

“Nice to meet you,” Arthur greets jovially, shaking his hand firmly. “Harry was very excited to get here. Called me a half hour early to pick him up.”

Louis hums, turning a smirk on Harry with a knowing look. Opening the back door, Harry rolls his eyes and gives him a gentle shove to step inside. “It’s not like he’s  _ my _ chauffeur. He works for Columbia and drives loads of people around. I have to call and book him when I have places I need to be. Otherwise, yeah. I take a taxi or the subway.”

“So this is just for me then?” Louis inquires, the smirk turning into a shit eating grin. Harry contemplates sending him back to departures for a last minute flight home to Wisconsin. 

The ride back to his apartment is much like the trip from his office, slow and slippery, the windows obscured by raindrops and ice that clings to the surface. There is one thing that makes it significantly better, though, and that’s Louis, his hand a warm, welcome weight on Harry’s thigh. Louis’ attention is entirely trained outside, barely an inch away from the glass as he stares at the passing lights, so bright that it doesn’t look like darkness has fallen at all. When they pass through Times Square, Louis’ fingertips dig into the seam of his trousers with ill concealed excitement. There’s so many ever changing screens of glowing advertisements framing the street that Louis’ face reflects the rainbow in a matter of seconds. 

“Holy shit,” Louis whispers, and Harry tucks his face down against the collar of his coat, hiding the fond smile that’s been growing by the minute. 

Released from the throng of traffic, Arthur gets them back to Harry’s apartment in the East Village just as the wind picks up again, rocking the car on the street as it slows. Harry ushers Louis up the front steps and under the overhang, carrying his luggage up as they go. It’s an older building, all ornate crown molding and grand stairs that wind from floor to floor, adorned with a rich burgundy carpet, but Harry leads them to the back, a tiny elevator tucked away. 

His apartment is cozy and inviting when he unlocks the door, the scattered lamps on a timer, illuminating the space in golden light that warms it from corner to corner. The exposed brick of the back wall hugs the space while the bay windows give the illusion of expanse, blinds half drawn to the storm outside. There’s an overstuffed sectional that’s cameoed in their Facetimes, mid-century furniture settled into the room, and a case full of vinyl that serves as a feature, a 3x3 arrangement of favorites positioned like a gallery above it on the wall. 

Harry sets his keys into a dish by the door, the tinny clatter effectively making Louis jump, having been turning circles in the center of Harry’s living room, absorbing details.

“So. Welcome to my apartment,” Harry says, toeing his boots off and hanging his coat up to dry. “Make yourself at home. I’ll give you a tour in a few.”

He wheels Louis’ suitcase to the edge of the room to bring to the bedroom later, taking Louis’ coat from him after to hang with his own. “Want anything to drink?”

“Water, for now. Wine later, maybe,” Louis answers him, his fingertips drifting over the surface of the vinyl case. “This is so New York. Your apartment. More than anything I saw on the way here.” He laughs, but sounds genuinely overjoyed. 

“I chose this place just for the brick,” Harry says with a wry grin, caught out. He disappears to his bedroom to change out of his work clothes, trading a plain button down shirt and smart floral print trousers for worn joggers and a t-shirt. 

Louis follows him to the kitchen after and Harry pours them both glasses of water, searching through the wine cooler for a bottle that fits the evening. He chooses a red that’s been pressed with warm spices, leftover from the holidays, and leaves it on the counter for later. The kitchen itself is rather grand, decked out with all the trimmings for a chef and a massive island taking up the center. When Harry had finally taken the plunge from renter to owner, the kitchen was the first thing he’d turned his attention to, upgrading the bland cabinets and backsplash and replacing all the appliances.

“You sure this isn’t like, Gordon Ramsay’s kitchen or something?” Louis jokes as he picks up his glass, taking a small sip. 

Harry’s not sure if Louis’ aware that he’s turning in circles again, but he chuckles nonetheless. “I just gave it a facelift. Over the summer.”

“It’s nice. Wouldn’t know the first thing to do in here, but it’s nice,” Louis says, running his palm over the marble countertops. 

Harry leans a hip against the other side, one arm folded across his stomach and the other holding his glass. “Still can’t cook, hm?” 

“Not a chance,” Louis confirms, shaking his head.

Opening one of the drawers, Harry slaps a collection of takeout menus in front of Louis. “I’ll cook for you sometime this weekend, but I figured we could order Thai or Indian or something tonight. Just relax.”

Louis sorts through them, separating them into piles the logical way - based on their design. Harry reaches for one of his favorite Indian joints, scoffing. “This is one of the best!” 

“Yeah, but their menu is ugly. I can’t trust a restaurant that can’t even design a proper menu!” Louis protests, pointedly flicking it back into the discard pile.

Harry rolls his eyes and turns to collect a couple wine glasses. Louis may have said later, but Harry’s going to need a glass of wine to make it through his meticulous selection process. He pours them each a glass and slides one towards Louis’ waiting hand, taking a sip without looking up as if he’d been anticipating it all along. “Thanks.”

“What do you feel like? Might help narrow it down,” Harry suggests, taking a sip from his own glass and licking over his lips after. 

Louis hums, setting a few menus down in front of himself. “Thai sounds good. This place looks alright,” he says, grinning. “Lui’s.”

They order more food than either of them can possibly eat in one sitting, loads of dumplings and chicken satay, scallion pancakes and pad thai and a spicy green curry. Every time Harry thinks their order is complete, Louis finds something else that sounds appetizing, tacking on crunchy shrimp rolls and shumai. 

They take their wine to the sofa after, sitting side by side for all of three minutes before Harry’s straddling Louis’ hips, holding his glass to the side as he leans in to kiss him. Louis has the sense to set his own glass aside, mostly so his hands are free to fit over the love handles Harry’s never grown out of, smoothing down to hold his hips. The kiss is slow, unrushed and unwatched unlike the one shared in the airport, and Harry hums with satisfaction at the drag of Louis’ tongue, the red he can taste there and the subtle spice that he’s unsure belongs to Louis or the wine. Harry thinks, rather dumbly, that he could kiss him for an eternity and never tire, that he could have Louis’ hands on him and always feel fire. 

It’s only when Harry’s hips roll forward, wine sloshing precariously in his glass still balanced in his hand, that Louis draws away, slow and measured, until he drops his head against the back of the sofa. Harry stares at him, lips both kiss bitten and stained red, confused. 

“Probably better if the delivery guy doesn’t get an eyeful,” Louis says, pointedly looking down. They’re both starting to tent their joggers; another moment and the situation would be on its way to dire. 

Harry gives a long suffering sigh, pouring on the dramatics as he shuffles out of Louis’ lap and takes a sip of his wine. The buzzer breaks the heady silence just after and Louis grins, grins in the way he knows he’s right and Harry’s going to have to admit it now. 

“Don’t even say it,” Harry says as he gets up, setting his wine glass down as he passes the coffee table. 

Louis can’t help himself. “Told you.”

The delivery guy knocks on the door, looking overwhelmed by the weight of their bag, before Harry can tackle Louis and make him take it back. He tips him well and sends him on his way with a cheerful, “Happy New Year!” even though it’s a month passed and has long since lost its novelty. 

They spread out each carton and container of food on the coffee table in front of them, making little plates out of the lids and sitting on the floor, wedged in between with the sofa behind them for support. There’s nothing good on TV, so Louis flips on Netflix, searching through the new releases before he automatically defaults to The Office. It’s old and not at all politically correct today, but Harry smiles anyway at the opening jingle, remembers all the nights they stayed up binging, watching it over and over until they’d memorized all the lines. 

“You’re like Ryan,” Louis says after a while, mouth half full of a shrimp roll.

Harry turns to look at him, affronted. “Ew, no. What? Why?”

“Because he was just like, the hot temp no one took seriously and then he fucked off to New York City and became a big shot,” Louis answers. 

Harry looks down at his plastic lid of food, poking at a dumpling. He knows Louis is joking, mostly, but there’s an underlying edge to it as well. For all the overwhelming joy at being in one another’s lives again, the blooming hope of a promising relationship, Harry knows there’s a small part of Louis that still resents him. There might always be, he thinks, remembering a whispered conversation past 2am when he’d gotten home from drinks that ran late with friends, Louis’ voice barely audible. “You  _ left  _ me,” he’d said and Harry’s heart had broken in half, his reasons valid, but seemingly unimportant in that moment. He hadn’t even had the desire to be petty about it, to argue back. 

“But,” Louis starts again, picking up immediately on the quiet that’s taken over Harry. “You also didn’t get hooked on coke and fired and  _ then _ fuck off to Thailand. Actually, he didn’t even go, did he?” 

Harry cracks a smile, laughs a second later. “No, he was in Florida.”

“Fucking Ryan,” Louis laughs, the tension broken as he reaches for another shrimp roll.

They finish eating in companionable silence, murmuring words they know by heart as they come up, episode after episode, sometimes in unison. The containers are mostly empty, a valiant and respectable attempt at finishing everything they ordered. Harry finds himself lost in his own head more than once, wondering if he’s fooling himself thinking this will all work out like the fairy tale he’s dreaming of. Louis catches him a million miles away, leaning sideways to bump their shoulders together, and distracts him by demanding another glass of wine. It’s welcome, getting up and piling all their rubbish in the take out bag. He takes their glasses to the kitchen for a heavy refill and when he returns, Louis is standing in front of the bay windows, looking out at the bits of the city that’s visible. 

“Do you ever have trouble sleeping?” Louis asks when he hears Harry behind him, elaborating after, “Like, from all the lights? It’s so bright.”

Harry chuckles, tilts his head down fondly as he hands over Louis’ glass. “I think I’ve just gotten used to it. I did when I first moved, but I’m not sure if it was because of the lights or because I was just… fucking shellshocked.”

“I can see how it’d be overwhelming,” Louis says, humming his agreement as his lips pull up in one corner. 

Harry moves to him, drawn to him as if an invisible cord is pulling him by the middle, and leans against the record case. He thinks about those first few weeks in New York, so long ago that they don’t even feel like his own life, but sharp in his memory, if only for the heartache he’d felt. Though he’d never admit it, at least not out loud, he knows he didn’t sleep back then not because the city never turned out its lights, but because he found himself one of millions of people living in New York, yet the only person he wanted to talk to was nearly a thousand miles away.

“C’mon, I’ll finish the tour,” Harry says, taking Louis’ hand by his fingertips to lead him back through the apartment towards the master suite.

It’s a large room, painted a calming cream color, everything dressed in neutrals that invite relaxation, aside from the furniture that’s a rich mahogany in contrast. His bed, unlike the full beds he and Louis have back home in their parents’ houses, is a California king, the bedding tufted and plush. One nightstand is relatively bare, but the one on Harry’s side of the bed is stacked with both unread books and well loved copies, dog eared and worn. Fairy lights zig zag the ceiling, providing the only lighting in the room, and Harry would be embarrassed if they didn’t make the whole room feel snug and homey, welcoming. A door on the furthest wall leads to the en suite, a tiled shower in seafoam green that reads like sea glass and a massive soaker tub that Harry finds himself in several times a week. 

There’s a moment of contemplation that flashes across Louis’ face and then he’s ditching his wine glass on one of the bedside tables and falling straight into the duvet. It puffs around him, suddenly inflated with air, slowly waning flat again like a parachute. 

Harry laughs, but Louis just snow angels comically on top of the bed, sighing happily. “You told me to make myself at home.”

“I did,” Harry answers, amusement in his voice as he looks on. “Black out curtains too. In case you really were concerned about the light pollution.”

“‘Light pollution,’” Louis echoes, his hands lifting off the bed to make air quotes. “Fancy.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but it’s without malice. He sets his wine glass down beside Louis’ and has a feeling they’ll remain untouched for the rest of the night as he knee walks his way across the bed. Louis rolls onto his side as Harry settles onto his, face to face as they observe one another, and Harry reaches out to skate his thumb across the top of Louis’ cheekbone, just beneath the shadow of a circle under his eye. 

“Tired?” Harry asks him, his fingertips tender as they drift to trace his lips, over his jaw, refamiliarizing himself with the juxtaposition of sharp angles and soft features that make up Louis’ face. 

Louis hums, blinking slowly and losing the battle with keeping his eyes open. “Didn’t sleep so well,” he says. It stirs concern in Harry’s chest until he continues, “Was too excited to get here.”

It’s so pure and genuine that Harry literally beams, turns his face down against the duvet as if to hide. “If it makes you feel any better, I got a whole lot of nothing done at work all week. Just thought about you.”

“Mm… bad for business, me.” Louis opens his eyes, just a sliver as they crinkle with a matching smile. 

Harry forces himself up after, turning the bedding down, and eventually coaxes Louis to the bathroom to get ready for bed. He’d bought him a toothbrush even though he was sure Louis would bring his own and he finds he doesn’t regret it for a second when Louis reaches for it, both grateful and a bit bashful. They brush their teeth side by side, Louis snickering when Harry’s mouth overflows with foam down his shirt. It feels like a page torn from their friendship as teenagers and Harry’s heart twists, thinking back to that version of himself and how desperately gone for Louis he’d been. Turns out, nothing has changed, but Harry wishes his young, floppy haired self could see them now. 

“What do you wanna do tomorrow?” Harry asks as they climb into bed, both stripping down to their boxer briefs. 

Louis turns on his side, wriggles and scooches himself closer until he can share Harry’s pillow. “It’s  _ your _ birthday. Shouldn’t you be telling me?” 

“I just wanna be with you, Lou. That’s a gift in and of itself,” Harry says, settling his hand on Louis’ chest so he can thumb over the ink across his collarbone. 

“You fool,” Louis teases, given away by the adoration that passes his face. 

Harry moves closer to him, inching down the bed until he can tuck his head under Louis’ chin, pillow his head on his chest. “Just glad you’re here. Missed you.”

There’s nothing but silence and Harry thinks Louis’ finally fallen asleep, slumber whisking him away, the hours he’d spent wide awake catching up to him. But then he whispers, unguarded words murmured into the top of Harry’s head, “Missed you. Love you.” 

Harry smiles and closes his eyes, feels the desire to wrap himself in those words and roll around in them until they’re embedded in his skin. All his worries, the persistent trepidation living in the back of his mind, drift away as steadily as the wind driving the rain outside. 

x

They’re awoken long after dawn when the sun finally makes its way over the buildings surrounding Harry’s, filtering in in long stripes across the bed and turning everything a toasted gold. He’d forgotten to pull the black out curtains before they’d collapsed into bed, but it’s a welcome salutation that warms him from the inside out. The wind and rain must have passed in the night and when Harry blinks and stares across his room, he can see the dust particles dancing in one stream of sunlight, suspended midair. 

When Louis finally rouses from sleep, his eyes scrunched against the infringing sun, they get up and take a shower that fills the bathroom with steam and turns their figures into vague shapes in the foggy mirror. Harry sucks Louis off with long, tight strokes of his mouth, his hands gripping the backs of his knees as Louis’ fingers thread through his hair, still soft with shampoo. Louis’ nails bite into his shoulder as he grows closer to the edge, hips rocking forward unsteadily into his mouth, and Harry flexes his throat around him, doubles down on his efforts and hollows his cheeks. 

He’s missed this, missed the physical intimacy that long distance doesn’t allow, and finds himself wanting. He wants and wants and wants - wants more of Louis, more of his skin and his hands and his come. He wants more  _ time _ , wants Louis here with him now, tomorrow, always, never wants him to leave. There’s a part of him that wants to tell New York to wait, that they’ll take her by storm tomorrow when Harry’s had a chance to spend a day in bed with Louis, mapping his tattoos with his mouth and pulling a melody of sounds from him. 

But they’re already on a ticking timer, Louis’ early Monday morning flight just on the horizon, so when Louis comes down his throat with a shout, his head hitting the shower wall with a dull thud, Harry stands back up, hastening to rinse his hair. His eyes are closed to the rushing water, strands of hair plastered to his forehead, so he feels rather than sees Louis as he wraps his arms around him from behind and gets a hand on his cock. It only takes a couple pulls, Louis’ lips planted between his shoulder blades as he murmurs breathless encouragements. The sheer affection, the tenderness in which he holds Harry’s hip as he brings him off, has him coming over Louis’ fist, keening as he leans back into his chest for support. He sighs as he drifts back down, his body languid and mind dizzy, but his chest full. 

“Happy birthday, babe,” Louis murmurs into his skin. Harry smiles with his eyes closed, his birthday forgotten even to himself, and lets Louis hold him until the water runs luke warm. 

They get dressed after, in warm jumpers and beanies to fend off the lingering chill, and make their way out to the street. Everything is wet, icy in spots where the sun doesn’t hit, and bright enough that Harry longs for his sunglasses, left behind inside. They pick up sesame bagels at a cafe around the corner, still warm from the oven, and Harry laughs as Louis groans at the doughy interior. 

“Best fucking bagel I’ve ever had,” Louis moans. 

Harry grins and tears off another bite of his own bagel, dipping it in the container of cream cheese. “Welcome to New York.”

“Would move here for these,” Louis says around a mouthful, and Harry knows he’s joking, but it still runs a current of tension through his body. 

He wants to ask more, breach the topic seriously once again, but the day’s just begun and it’s a conversation for another time. It’s his birthday and Louis’ first proper day in New York and Harry wants it to be perfect, wants to fall asleep thinking about it when Louis’ not here. 

Bellies full, Harry takes Louis on the subway headed for the Met, just to prove that he doesn’t always ride around in a black car through the city. Louis throws an arm around his shoulders and knocks their knees together, pressed hip to thigh, as they speed toward their destination underground. The Met is more Harry’s cup of tea and he knows it, but it’s not to be missed and he thinks Louis will surprise himself and enjoy it. No one has ever visited the Met and walked away wishing they’d spent their time doing something else. 

When they arrive, Louis shoulders him out of the way before Harry has the chance to get his wallet out, despite nearly choking at the price of admission. Harry waves his credit card around by his face, trying to hand it over to the woman at the front desk, but Louis steps directly in front of him and hands over cash, batting the plastic away from his cheek. It’s a lot of money for what Louis makes, Harry knows, but he gives him this one, no choice in the matter when the woman slides their tickets and Louis’ change over. 

“Where to first?” Louis asks, already buried in the pamphlet and map that came with his ticket. 

Harry hums and looks over his shoulder, leaning into Louis’ back. “Mmm… love the Dutch masterpieces. The abstract stuff is really cool too. Huge.”

“I’ll follow your lead then.” Louis shrugs, not knowing the first thing about the Met or art, and runs his index finger over the map. “Teach me art! Give me  _ culture _ ,” he laughs, his hand dropping into Harry’s when they start to meander.

They end up in the room of abstracts first, Harry walking slowly around the perimeter as he reads the plaques and marvels each work, the color choice, the thickness of paint and brushstrokes. Louis, to his credit, does his best to hum in interest, ask questions, but Harry knows he’s lost him when he’s got his nose back in the pamphlet. It’s not until they’re in front of Pollock’s sprawling canvas, covered in splatters and drips, that Louis perks up. 

“He really did not give a fuck, huh? Just fucking went for it,” Louis comments. 

Harry laughs, nodding as he stands back from the painting, eyes tracking all the movement it evokes just from the direction of the paint. “He used sticks and just poured paint straight from the buckets for some of them, splattered it around with big brushes. I think there’s one that actually has like, cigarette butts that he dropped embedded in the paint. Coins and other random stuff,” Harry tells him. 

“My kinda guy,” Louis jokes, staring up at the canvas until he begins to wander away again. 

They stroll over to the Dutch exhibit a while later, the paintings much more literal in their subject matter and slightly more captivating. Harry can’t help himself, rambles off facts about Rembrandt and Vermeer, the significance of their images to religion and the fascination of domesticity within the lives of women.

“How’d you learn all this?” Louis asks eventually, his face calm, but holding an expression of genuine awe. 

Harry looks down at his boots and turns his toes in with a bashful shrug. “Took art history in college. Just for fun, really, as an elective.”

“If you ever get tired of being a lawyer, you could give tours,” Louis says, joking, but still sincere. 

Harry laughs and tugs on the hem of Louis’ jumper, reeling him in for a kiss while the room is blissfully empty. There, under the watchful eyes of characters cast in oils, Harry leans into Louis and seals himself to his chest, opening his mouth under his. They break apart when the echo of approaching footsteps draws near, but it does nothing to keep their hands off one another, Louis’s placed on Harry’s waist to push him from the room to the next exhibit. Harry’s own fingers find their way to Louis’ belt loops, never letting him so much as an inch away. 

The next few hours pass as they explore the Costume Institute’s exhibit left behind from the fall and another room dedicated to art and armor of a 15th century knight. Harry stares after the fashion longingly, drawn by the fabric and drape of each piece, and tries not to blush furiously when Louis makes a comment about a deep green dress and tells him it would bring out his eyes, would look good on him. It reminds him that there’s still so much about Louis that he doesn’t know, that he’s grown in his own ways too in the last ten years and Harry doesn’t know those parts of him the way he knew Louis as a teenager. It settles something inside him, like a piece coming home to a puzzle, that Louis didn’t bat an eye watching him yearn to touch, feel, hold a piece like the green dress, that he’d simply imagined Harry wearing it and accepted it, decided he’d look perfect in it. Harry’s not sure that would have been the case in high school, but he’d never allowed himself to be so open or vulnerable back then, not even with Louis.

Louis snaps him out of it when they round on the knight, gleaming in a full suit of armor, and he nudges Harry with his elbow, lips already quirked with mischief. “Think he’ll let me borrow his sword?” 

“I think that’s why they’ve got a  _ do not touch _ sign right there,” Harry says, pointing to the plaque with a look of mirth.

Louis makes like he’s going to kick the sign to the side, but stands in front of it instead. “I’m sure if I asked nicely… seems like an alright guy.”

“What would you do with a sword anyway?” Harry asks him, looping both his arms around Louis’ waist as his lands across his shoulders, natural as breathing air.

Louis thinks on it for a moment. “Cut down everyone who was an ass to you in high school. Avenge your honor and all that.”

Harry snorts, turning his face in against Louis’ chest, but smiles wide enough that it’s not sustainable without an ache in his cheeks. When he looks up, Louis’ looking down at him with a similar smile, a little softer at the edges, but his eyes bright with affection.

“Are you hungry?” Harry asks, distracting himself from his desire to stare. He’s wanted to match the blue of Louis’ eyes to the hues in all the paintings they’ve passed since they started their tour.

“Thought you’d never ask. Starving. All this art talk is hard work,” Louis jokes, immediately steering them back to the entrance of the museum.

Outside, the sun is still out and the last of the clouds have dissipated, leaving behind a flawless blue sky that stretches across the whole city. It’s warmed up a few degrees, enough that Harry’s not constantly searching out his cozy pockets, and they stroll towards Midtown, towards the Empire State Building, choosing to walk and enjoy the respite of winter. 

Louis spends a good five minutes talking about how nicely the weather has cleared up, how stunning the sky is, before Harry realizes he’s teasing him for all his worry the night prior. Harry shoves him and nearly sends him staggering into a family that’s oncoming, but there’s just a gasp from Louis and then they’re laughing until their stomachs hurt. It’s not even particularly funny, but just a reaction to the pure delight of being together, finding the ease of being in one another’s company once more.

Harry has dinner already in mind, so he suggests a couple of hotdogs from one of the street vendors they pass to hold them over. There’s no protest from Louis, both too hungry to care and downright gleeful at the chance at another stereotypical New York experience. They eat them a respectable distance away from a trash can, but close enough to ditch ketchup sodden napkins as they pile up, both Louis’ hotdogs overloaded with condiments that drip over his fingers with every bite.

They make a pitstop in the bathrooms on the ground floor of the Empire State Building, mostly because Louis won’t stop whinging about the mustard between his fingers. Harry takes the opportunity to hurry out of the bathroom first, purchasing tickets to the main deck and the museum before Louis can stop him. It starts another round of Louis’ complaints, pointing out several times that it’s Harry’s  _ birthday _ , that he’s allowed to treat him to tickets and food, but really only succeeds in a bunch of strangers overhearing and chirping a chorus of  _ Happy Birthdays!  _ at him. Harry turns a shade of pink that Louis relishes in and Harry considers them even.

They start in the 2nd floor museum, but it doesn’t last longer than a quick circuit around the room, Louis long since burned out on history and eager to get to the observation deck. The elevator up makes their ears pop and their stomachs drop, rocketing to the 86th floor in seconds. Harry knows Louis is expecting to step right out and be bowled over by the view, but what they’re met with instead is a long line of tourists  _ also _ waiting for their opportunity. They’re far enough away from the windows that the only thing visible is a slice of blue sky. 

Louis huffs and crosses his arms as he tries to lean up on his toes, peer around the line. “This is going to take  _ ages _ .”

“You wanted to do all the tourist-y rubbish. That comes with long lines and loads of families,” Harry points out, but he settles an arm around Louis’ shoulders as a subtle attempt at comfort. 

In the end, it doesn’t actually take too long at all, the line steadily moving as people come and go. Louis rushes right for the windows, anxious to see the city sprawling ahead for miles, but Harry hangs back, the height and distance from the ground always making his palms sweat and his stomach go queasy. 

Louis turns back to him when he notices, holding an arm out to him to beckon him forward. “C’mere, babe. What’s wrong?”

“It’s just a bit… makes me nervous,” Harry admits, shuffling forward timidly. 

Louis pulls him near and nudges Harry closer to the windows, framing his body with an arm at either side of his waist. Subconsciously, Harry relaxes and the tension drains from his shoulders, Louis’ presence behind him calming. 

“Have you ever been?” Louis asks, his head poking around the side of Harry’s arm. 

Harry shakes his head. “No. Was always too anxious.”

“Nervous now?” Louis asks, voice low against his ear, and Harry shakes his head again, leans into Louis’ chest and really allows himself to look. 

The sun is low in the sky at this hour, reflecting in the skyscrapers so brightly it leaves spots behind Harry’s eyes. He can see Central Park and the Hudson River, points out the Brooklyn Bridge to Louis with enthusiasm, all his previous fear diminished to near nothing, safe in Louis’ embrace. 

“And your apartment?” Louis asks. Harry can feel his smile pressed to the side of his arm. 

Harry squints, points off to the east vaguely. “Somewhere over there.”

Louis waves in the general whereabouts of the apartment and Harry laughs, waves as well even though it’s silly. 

They spend another twenty minutes just rooted to the same spot, watching the sun sink to the horizon through the mirror finish of the surrounding buildings. Other tourists mill about, their voices echoing around the room as they make their own observations and point out landmarks to family and friends. Neither Harry nor Louis find any need to speak, to add their voices to the mix, and just soak up the last minutes of the day. 

Harry’s struck with a moment of gratitude and love, for this city, for Louis, for the experience of standing on top of the world, as his heart swells inside his chest. Harry reflects on the morning and the afternoon, grateful to share his city that he loves so much with the person he loves with all his heart, always has. He makes a mental note to ask Louis’ opinion later, already wondering if it’s somewhere they could love together. 

Harry leans his head back against Louis’ shoulder, takes in the golden, late afternoon hue of his skin, and tries to look at him upside down. “Ready for dinner?” 

“Absolutely. Next stop on the Styles tour,” Louis teases, but he’s smiling, already untangling from Harry so they can leave. 

They make their way back to the East Village and stop off at Lavagna for dinner, the sky dwindling to a deep purple as evening sets in, glowing at the edges with the city’s vibrance. It’s a cozy little spot, very New York with its exposed brick and ornate ceiling, original floors and classic white table cloths, already nearly full with guests and the din of conversation filling the space. Harry asks for a table for two and they get one of the last spots, arranged by the windows and adorned with a couple tea candles in the center for ambiance. 

Harry stops by Lavagna almost once a week, usually after a particularly rough day when all he has the energy for is stuffing his face with fresh pappardelle. Tonight, he makes his usual order, but encourages Louis to try the rigatoni, promising they can mix and match. They share a basket of garlic bread between the two of them and eat off one another’s plates when the pasta arrives. It’s the best pasta Harry’s had in a while and he’s not sure if it’s because he’s had it served fresh at the restaurant or if it’s the blend of atmosphere and company that makes the food particularly delicious, but he has a hunch. Louis’ foot hooks around his ankle under the table and it makes Harry flush, blaming the bottle of cabernet they had split that stains their lips and teeth purple and warms them from the inside out. 

After dinner, wrapped back in their coats and beanies, Louis insists on dessert, somewhere they can either have a slice of cake or buy an entire one in honor of Harry’s birthday. 

“There’s a Milk Bar near here,” Harry tells him as he looks through search results on his phone. 

Louis looks at him quizzically. “A Milk-what?”

“Milk Bar,” Harry says, leaning close so Louis can see his phone. “They do these really amazing cakes.” 

“Cake is the name of the game. Can we get a whole one?” Louis asks.

Harry doesn’t think they need a whole cake, birthday or not, and knows they won’t finish it before the weekend is out, but he can’t find it in himself to say no. Not when Louis is looking at him expectantly, already anticipating the sugar rush. 

So that’s exactly how they end up lugging a three layer birthday cake back to Harry’s apartment. He doesn’t keep birthday candles on hand, so Louis shoves a half burned candlestick into the center of the cake and sets it aflame with the lighter from his pocket. Louis only manages to sing half of Happy Birthday before Harry presses him against the island and kisses him, the song replaced with muffled laughter into one another’s lips. 

“Wanna taste you with cake on your lips,” Louis whispers into his mouth, hands drifting up and down Harry’s chest. 

It takes a tangible effort to pull away, but Harry does, choosing a knife from the block. The cake’s gone a bit lopsided in its journey here, but it doesn’t change how good the first slice looks, flopped onto a plate for them to share. 

“Do you want to feed me a bite as well?” Harry teases, handing over a fork to Louis and grabbing one for himself. 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Save it for our wedding, Harold.”

Harry grins down at the cake, dimple deep in his cheek, and tries not to give himself away. Little does Louis know, that’s exactly what he intends to do, knows he’ll marry Louis one day in the future without a doubt in mind, no matter how long it takes them to get there. 

Louis sees right through him, shifting sideways to bump their hips together. “You wanna smash cake in my face?” he asks as he swipes another bite. 

“Something like that,” Harry answers, his words heavy and loaded with meaning.

It hangs in the air between them, a vague admission and nod to the future, but Louis breaks the tension by poking his fork into Harry’s cheek, effectively mushing cake right into the cavern of his dimple. 

“Lou!” Harry yelps, grabbing Louis’ wrist at the same time as he attempts to bat him away. 

Louis just throws his head back and laughs, a sound that fills up Harry’s chest and his heart, makes it hard to breathe for a second. He takes the fork from Louis’ hand, tosses it down on the plate with a clatter, and pulls him in by the waist, crashing their lips together before Louis’ even stopped laughing. Louis responds immediately, though, with an audible groan that replaces his laughter. His hands lift, both of them interlocking at the back of Harry’s neck while his lips turn insistent. He licks into Harry’s mouth, searching out the flavor of sweet icing and vanilla cake and ignoring the sticky smear on Harry’s cheek, his tongue dragging light and teasing, unhurried. Harry’s whole body goes rigid with want, his hands flexing on Louis’ waist as they bunch in his jumper and draw him in closer. 

It’s Louis that takes a step back first, fisting a hand in the front of Harry’s sweater. “Want you,” he breathes and when Harry looks up, his eyes are bluer than the sky over Manhattan all afternoon, clear with desire. 

Harry reaches back and pulls off his t-shirt and jumper, dropping it on the floor in the kitchen before he urges Louis in the direction of his bedroom. His body presses up against Louis’ back as they shuffle and he kisses up the side of his neck, hands wandering beneath his shirt and over his stomach. His fingertips twitch with need, need for more skin and more contact. Louis pushes him away at the edge of the bed, but only so he can put them on even ground, throwing his sweater off and across the room towards his suitcase. Harry’s mind briefly stumbles, catching on the luggage and remembering that this is all temporary, unique to this weekend only, to Louis’ visit. 

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it further; when he looks back, Louis’ kicking his jeans and underwear off as well. He raises an eyebrow in Harry’s direction. 

“You gonna leave those on?” he teases, gesturing at Harry’s jeans as he uses his elbows to drag himself up the bed. 

Harry snaps to action then and kicks his boots off, one landing under the bed. His jeans and boxer briefs come off in a hurry, joining Louis’ pile on the floor. Standing at the end of the bed, he looks at Louis, golden brown even in the dead of winter against his sheets, spread out with a hand lazily working his cock, half hard. He knows Louis is about to snap at him, tell him to join him with the impatience he always has in these moments, so Harry acts first and crawls up his body to meet his lips again. 

The kiss is slow despite their hurry to the bedroom, Harry barely dipping his tongue into Louis’ mouth. It turns hot with need when Louis hooks a leg over Harry’s waist and flips them, grinning down at him lazily, smug like it took no effort to gain the upperhand. And it didn’t, Harry more than happy to relinquish control. 

“‘s your birthday,” Louis murmurs against his chin as his teeth scrape there, biting their way down to his neck. 

It makes Harry laugh, like he’s at all concerned about the reasoning, like he even remembers it’s his birthday when Louis’ sucking a mark into his neck that will surely show over his shirt collar come Monday. The laughter dies in his throat as Louis’ mouth makes its way to his nipple, tongue dragging over it as he looks up at Harry through his lashes and fringe, completely aware of what he’s doing. Harry’s whole body arches, a slow undulation from his hips to his shoulder blades, and he groans low, rumbling in his chest like thunder. 

“Fuck, Lou,” he whispers, his hand threading through Louis’ hair, effectively mussing it. 

Louis hums against his skin and continues his descent lower, mouthing hotly over the butterfly inked on Harry’s stomach until he finds the laurels. His tongue seems to draw over the stem and each leaf, the tip delicately tracing as if he were painting them into Harry’s skin himself. 

“Wanted to do this since I saw these,” he says, his voice deep with arousal, desire, when it’s normally high. 

Harry can’t even answer, just sits up on his elbows to watch him. It’s mesmerizing, watching Louis’ lips and tongue work over his skin, a decades long fantasy come to life. Every time they’d fooled around back home in Sturgeon Bay, there’d been a need to hurry, a rush to the finale, lest his mom come knocking or one of Louis’ sisters. Sneaking around had added an element to the moment, his body wound tight and hot with knowing they  _ could _ get caught, but he can’t help but appreciate where he is now, Louis between his legs with nowhere to be.

Apparently Louis knows it too, licking around the base of Harry’s cock slow and deliberate before he mouths lower, over his balls, and gets to his real prize. The very second Louis’ tongue touches his hole, just a tiny swipe, Harry whines and throws an arm across his face, biting into his wrist. It feels good, of course it does, but it’s more the anticipation that wells inside him, flooding all of his senses until he can think of nothing but Louis’ tongue.

Louis reaches up and bats his arm away. “I wanna hear you,” he tells him, eyes dark and focused.

Harry nods dumbly, setting his hands by his sides. His fingers twitch in the sheets and he takes a deep, steadying breath that does little to relieve any of the tension in his body.

Satisfied, Louis dips his head back between his legs. This time, Harry gets no warning before Louis’ tongue flattens against his hole, deliberately applying pressure that swims up Harry’s spine in hot waves. He licks straight up until he meets his balls again, mouthing over them and drawing a steady stream of moans that Harry can’t even remember signaling his mouth to make. 

“Jesus, Louis,” he breathes, weakly lifting his head and only catching sight of the top of Louis’. He collapses back down with a grunt and swears he can feel Louis smirk against his rim.

Louis throws his legs over his shoulders, his hands circling Harry’s hips as he pulls him down, closer to his face. His tongue fucks into him, splitting him open with wet, warm heat and Harry’s back arches off the bed so sharply he can hear his vertebrae pop. In the back of his mind, he wonders where Louis learned to do this, about his past partners, and feels a mild flare of jealousy cross his chest. But then Louis buries in further, sucks at his hole as his tongue flicks in and out greedily, and Harry can’t even recall his own name let alone Louis’ dating history.

“Lou,” Harry pants, hands sinking back into Louis’ hair. He’s not sure if he’s trying to pull him off or pull his face in deeper. “I need-” 

Louis takes the opportunity to slide the tip of his finger inside Harry’s spit slick hole, his face emerging as he looks up. Harry’s whole body rocks down, hips canting towards Louis’ finger, as he gasps, voice breaking on a moan. His thighs burn from the scrape of Louis’ beard, hot to the touch, everyone of his nerves rocketing in a different direction with pleasure. But it’s the sight of Louis, chin damp with spit and his lips already swollen, that makes him lose his train of thought altogether.

“I need-” Harry tries again, voice weak even to his own ears.

The devilish smirk crawls back over Louis’ face as he nudges his finger inside deeper, the very tip crooking. “You need what, love?”

“Fuck. I need-  _ shit _ . I need you,” Harry finally manages, thrashing his head to the side rather than lifting it so he can see Louis. “Want you inside.”

Louis doesn’t look surprised at the request, but he still breathes in sharply, all at once, like he can’t believe his luck or that Harry actually managed to ask. For once, Harry’s rendered him speechless and he rolls to one hip, shuffling around in his bedside drawer for lube and a condom. He throws them both at Louis, grinning wide with innocence when they slap against his chest and fall down between his legs.

Louis huffs, snatching up the lube, and when he looks back at him, Harry knows he’s in for it. He swallows audibly as he watches Louis slick his fingers and knows he’s about to be brought within an inch of his life. When Louis presses his finger back inside, it’s all the way to his second knuckle and makes Harry’s breath stutter in his chest. 

“More.  _ Please _ , fuck.  _ More _ ,” Harry hears himself groan before Louis even has the chance to move. 

He complies, finger dragging back slowly and then plunging back in with two, pumping deep. His fingers spread, eliciting another moan that borders on a whimper from Harry as he writhes down, clenching around Louis’ fingers. 

“Christ, Harry,” Louis swears, curling the tips of his fingers as he thrusts them shallowly. When they brush up against Harry’s prostate, his whole body shakes with the sensation, and Louis knows he’s struck gold if the way he relentlessly grinds his fingertips against it is anything to go by. 

“Louis, Louis,  _ Louis _ . Fuck, oh fuck. Please,  _ please _ ,” Harry mumbles, words spilling so fast they blend together, the edge of one lip bitten between his teeth. 

He barely knows what he’s begging for, just that he wants  _ more _ , doesn’t want it to stop. Louis adds a third finger and doesn’t let up on his prostate as he stretches him open. 

“Yeah, baby. Like that? Look so fucking good, H,” he whispers, and when Harry looks up, Louis’ face is tilted down, watching his fingers fuck in and out of Harry’s ass. 

That’s what does it. Harry digs his heels down into the bed, rolls his ass down against Louis’ fingers and throws his head back. “ _ Do  _ it. Fuck me,  _ fuck me. _ ”

Louis only momentarily loses himself, head snapping up to watch Harry shift impatiently against the sheets. Harry can’t help the pathetic sound that leaves him when Louis withdraws his fingers, but the respite gives him a chance to breathe, focus on not  coming the second Louis slides inside him. 

Harry sits up to reach for the condom, opening it blindly as he stretches his neck up, searching out Louis’ lips. It’s a searing kiss, hot and open mouthed, their teeth bumping messily as Harry licks into Louis’ mouth, tastes himself there, and rolls the condom down his cock simultaneously. Louis moans loudly into his mouth, grabs the back of his neck almost roughly as he battles Harry’s tongue back in his mouth. Harry squeezes a hand around his cock, jerking him until Louis’ so hard that he feels made of stone. 

A hand to Harry’s chest pushes him back, hard enough that he falls into the pillows and sheets with a clap. He stares up at Louis with eyes so far gone with arousal that there’s barely a ring of green around his pupils. Like Harry’s done so many times before, Louis just looks, soaks him in and the way he already looks fucked out. 

But it’s Harry’s turn to grow restless, lifting one long leg to Louis’ shoulder to haul him in. The other wraps around Louis’ waist as he falls into position, leaning down over Harry as he adds a bit more lube and drags the head of his cock up and down his crack. Harry breathes fast, chest rising and falling erratically, and pulls Louis down by the back of his head, fingers grasping his hair as he closes his mouth over his. Louis angles to push inside, his hips pitching forward.

The thing is, it’s everything at once. It’s dirty and sensual and hot as Louis’ tongue rolls over his, dances with the tip of Harry’s as his cock splits him open. But it’s also overwhelmingly emotional, like he can feel all the unspoken love and history between them as Louis bottoms out, full and whole and complete in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

Louis breaks the kiss, but their lips remain close, brushing as they gasp breaths into one another’s mouths. Harry opens his eyes, having fallen closed at some point, and stares up at Louis, nodding minutely when he feels adequately adjusted. 

“‘m good. Move, wanna feel you,” Harry whispers, all the volume he has strength for. 

Louis lowers himself to his elbows, frames Harry’s face with his upper body so that all Harry can see, think, feel is Louis inside him, above him, all around him. His hips rock back and then pump forward, strong and confident and deep, and Harry flails his arms out to wrap around any part of Louis he can get. He’s so overcome that he feels he’ll sink through the mattress if he doesn’t ground himself somehow. 

“Baby,” Louis groans, tucking his face down into Harry’s neck. His beard scratches against the fresh marks on Harry’s neck, rubbing raw and sending a shiver through his skin. “Fuck, so good. Feel so good.”

“Louis,” Harry murmurs, all he can manage as Louis shoves his knees into the mattress for leverage, picking up the pace.

Louis fucks into him like it’s the only thing he knows how to do, slow thrusts building into rapid vigor. Harry’s nails scratch down Louis’ shoulder blades and back, makes him hiss into Harry’s neck as he growls and snaps his hips a little harder. Every drive of Louis’ cock heaves Harry’s body up the bed, the sheets slipping underneath his sweat damp back.

Harry jabs his heel down into Louis’ shoulder to slope his hips up, the angle changing just enough for each of Louis’ unabating slams to meet his prostate dead on. A loud cry leaves Harry as his vision momentarily whites out around the edges, body spasming and clenching down around Louis. He stays buried on each roll in, grinding in circles against Harry’s prostate until he’s almost sobbing.

“ _ Harry _ . Fuck _ fuck _ ,” Louis curses, pulling himself up from where he’s all but collapsed on top of Harry. He pushes Harry’s legs back, folding him in on himself, and fucks him swiftly, the slap of his hips meeting Harry’s ass competing for volume with his moans.

Harry nearly goes slack with pleasure, but he flings an arm across his torso and gets a hand on himself, stripping his cock so fast that it borders on the edge of painful. “Close, close. Louis, I-I’m-”

“Me too,  _ me too _ ,” Louis spits back, strung out on his own rapture.

Harry hardly hears him. He comes so hard, so fast, that the intensity sneaks up on him, spurting up his chest and settling in the dip of his collarbone. Louis’ hand closes over his, working his cock in tandem as he persists, chasing his own orgasm as his hips rabbit. 

Harry’s eyes are unfocused, almost rolling back, barely coming back to himself when Louis comes. The top of his head hits the bedframe with Louis’ last thrust and he lolls his head to the side to witness it, Louis’ head thrown back with such euphoria that Harry can see every vein in his neck. It’s the single most beautiful thing Harry’s ever seen while also so erotic it makes his cock twitch feebly against his stomach.

There’s still a possibility that he’s having an out of body experience when Louis finally manages to pull out and slumps off to the side. The sheets are damp with sweat and lube and Harry feels sticky as he tries to catch his breath, the feeling in his toes and fingers vacated. There’s a jostle to his left as Louis ties off the condom, dropping it over the side of the bed somewhere. 

“Gonna step on that later,” Harry pants, his lips already turning up in a small, blissful smile.

Louis slaps an arm sideways, aiming for no place in particular and making contact with Harry’s sternum. “Shut up. Hope it landed in your boot,” he says, but Harry can hear the smile in his voice.

Louis reaches out in earnest, drags him into his side and chest, and Harry grins into his ribs where his head falls, arm thrown across Louis’ waist. When their bodies both cool, goosebumps breaking out over Harry’s skin, Louis yanks the duvet up, still unmade from the morning, and settles it over them, sodden sheets be damned.

“Happy birthday indeed,” Harry eventually says into Louis’ side. “Amazing. Incredible.”

Louis’ laughter vibrates through his chest against Harry’s lips. “Is this my Yelp review?” he jokes. 

Leaning up on his elbow, Harry surges up to kiss Louis, a smacking peck. “Five stars. Ten out of ten would do again.” 

Louis rolls his eyes, but his smile is still hanging off his lips, lazy and maddeningly sexy. 

“ _ Today _ \- all of it. Was incredible,” Louis answers in the end, tucking his chin against his chest to look down at Harry. “Thank you for taking me around.”

“Thank  _ you _ for convincing me to buy an entire cake,” Harry counters, looking up. “What did you think?”

“Of New York?” Louis asks. 

Harry nods, staring up at him intently. Of course, Louis’ only seen a fraction of the city, some of the most tourist trodden bits, but Harry still feels his heart beat a little faster, everything riding on a good first impression. 

“It’s… it honestly feels like another planet,” Louis laughs, hurrying to continue when he sees Harry’s eyebrows knit together. “In a good way. I mean, can’t really compare it to Sturgeon Bay, can I?”

Harry supposes that’s fair, but he falls quiet and pensive all the same even as he nods, his cheek brushing against Louis’ skin. 

“Could you see yourself here?” he asks, his voice almost apprehensive. 

Louis doesn’t answer immediately and it makes Harry itch with nerves. “I could. Someday.”

It’s not a yes, but it soothes the worry turning itself in circles in Harry’s stomach, reawakens the hope that always lives inside his heart. “Someday soon, I hope,” he whispers. 

Louis hums, whether agreeable or non committal, Harry’s unsure, though he thinks he might just be too sex stupid to think further beyond the present. Harry gives him a pass. 

Warm and comfortable, Harry noses along Louis’ skin and settles his head on his chest, eyes closing while he traces the valley of Louis’ waist on the opposite side. He thinks about where he was just a couple months ago, spread out in his bed by himself, too lonely to admit it and still hung up so many years later on someone he (thought) he’d never have. Life changes direction so quickly, with no notice or warning, for good or bad, and Harry is struck with all consuming gratitude once again for the path he’s been set on, at least for now.

Louis’ breath evens out beneath his head and when he looks up, his eyes are closed, lashes dark against the tops of his cheeks as his head turns away slightly with shallow sleep. He looks soft and relaxed, as at peace as Harry feels himself. The black out blinds are still open, but Harry closes his eyes to the life of the city, knowing he’s exactly where he’s meant to be, and sleeps. 

x

Sundays have always been a favorite of Harry’s. Even with Monday imminent, they always start slow like syrup, meandering lazily into the afternoon. He often drinks several cups of French pressed coffee while getting lost in the book he’s currently reading or catching up on journaling, sat at the island in his kitchen. There’s time for the little things that he misses during the week, buried under paperwork, phone calls, and client meetings. 

This Sunday feels much the same, but instead of one mug, steam unfurling above it, there’s an identical one beside it. Harry had cranked the heat up a notch to beat away the chill that set in overnight, but Louis’ still squashed into his side. In fact, Harry’s not certain if he’s even opened his eyes yet. He tucks an arm around Louis’ shoulders, rubs a hand up and down his arm to keep him warm.

Rather than sit at the island, they take their coffee to the sofa and drink in solitude, tucked under the quilt Harry keeps nearby. He doesn’t touch his book or his journal, but drops his head onto Louis’ shoulder, memorizing the cadence of his breaths, the way his body gives to Harry’s when they sit close together. He tries not to think about the week ahead or Louis’ flight back to Wisconsin tomorrow morning. At the start of the week, the prospect of a weekend together seemed like a luxury, but now it feels almost cruel, the days speeding by so quickly that Harry feels Louis’ only just gotten here. He  _ has _ only just gotten here.

They wake up slowly, sleepily, and eventually bundle up to venture outside, finding themselves at Narcissa for brunch. It’s packed when they arrive, the energy boisterous for a Sunday and loud with friends catching up, so they stand just to the side of the hostess station, Harry folding himself smaller to lean into Louis’ embrace, arms tucked under his coat. Harry explains that brunch is a right of passage in New York, a quintessential part of the weekend experience. 

“Bonus points if you go to spin before,” Harry jokes, his chin resting on Louis’ chest as he tilts his head up. 

Louis snorts and rolls his eyes so hard that Harry’s surprised they haven’t fallen to the floor. “Can’t think of anything I’d rather do less than  _ spin _ before I eat.”

“It’s a way of life! A  _ lifestyle _ ,” Harry says, pinching Louis’ waist through his jumper. 

Louis doesn’t look at all convinced, but takes great pleasure in saying, “Alright, Gwyneth Paltrow.”

Harry scoffs and stands straight, crossing his arms over his chest while trying to look as offended as possible. If Louis would just  _ live _ here, then he’d understand. He’d get it just like Harry got it when he moved and immersed himself in New York City, all it had to offer that Sturgeon Bay  _ didn’t.  _

He doesn’t have the chance to argue further as the waitress snags a few menus and waves them over, guiding them to a vacant booth. Harry looks out the window, the sky grey to yesterday’s bright blue, threatening snow showers at any moment.

Louis must take his silence as true hurt because he reaches across the table and places his hand over Harry’s, squeezing to get his attention. “I was only joking, H. You know that, yeah?”

“I know, Lou. Don’t worry. I know it’s all really different and probably seems silly,” Harry says. He turns his hand up in Louis’ and thumbs across his knuckles in reassurance. “I’ve lived here so long that I only know how to live like a New Yorker,” he adds, laughing. 

“It’s not silly. I just… yeah, it’s different,” Louis agrees, smiling with relief that Harry seems to grasp where he’s coming from. 

They turn to their menus after, Louis insisting on getting the iced cinnamon buns for the table to share. It’s pure sugar with no nutritional value, but Harry can’t seem to say no to him and it’s Sunday anyway. Harry chooses an omelette for himself with a side of fruit while Louis plans to ride his sugar high right through with a plate of waffles smothered in syrup with bacon. They eat while they talk about the rest of the day, sussing out a plan to take the subway to Central Park. It’s one of the most iconic landmarks of New York and Louis wants to be able to say he’s been there. 

The subway is relatively empty when they leave Narcissa and head north. Harry’s still tired, still vaguely thinking about Louis leaving tomorrow morning, so he rests his head on Louis’ shoulder and drapes an arm across his waist. When they emerge from the station, it’s begun to snow, massive flakes that flurry down and stick to Harry’s coat. They hold hands, tucked into Harry’s jacket pocket, and walk quickly to the park to keep warm. 

It’s peaceful the further into the park they walk, insulated by the trees from the surrounding streets. There’s still the odd taxi honk or grinding engine of a city bus, but otherwise, it’s quiet. That alone seems to stun Louis. 

“Can’t hear anything,” he says, looking over at Harry with surprise. 

Harry smiles. “It’s pretty quiet, yeah. Nice place to run. In the summer, I’ll just sit in the sun and read or write. Just relax.”

“Sounds nice, actually,” Louis says, burying his hand into Harry’s pocket further with a wiggle. “Got all that out there,” he says, throwing an arm back towards the skyscrapers rising above the park. “But still have a place to escape to. Somewhere to be outside.” 

“Yeah, sometimes it can feel like you’re indoors all the time. Just going from one place to another,” Harry tells him as they walk. 

Louis hums with a nod. “That’s what I’d miss about home. Being outside.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything back, feeling the fingers of unease climbing back into his stomach. He wants Louis to see New York, see  _ himself _ in New York, wants him to see all the opportunity that lies there and that it’s a chance at a fresh start for him, for  _ them.  _ It’s so difficult for Harry to let go of his expectations, his own selfish desires, and to trust in the process. To let Louis form his own opinions and make his own decisions. 

“C’mon, this way. I want to show you something,” Harry says as he picks up their pace and steers them further into the park. 

They round the corner to Belvedere Castle nestled atop Vista Rock, looking impressive and regal despite it essentially being a glorified lookout. In the cold, against the backdrop of the snow squall they’ve found themselves in, it looks less like Central Park and more like a miniature scene from  _ Game of Thrones _ . It has the desired effect, Louis’ lips parting with surprise as he looks up. 

“There’s a fucking castle?!” he gasps. 

Harry laughs, nodding as he takes him up the stone steps to the outdoor pavilion that overlooks much of the park. They stare out over the Great Lawn, the grey green winter grass turning crisp white with the collecting snowflakes. It’s cold, but there’s no wind, and they stand side by side, their arms intertwined as they rest their hands together on top of the railing. 

“They do all the weather stuff from here. The temperature or rainfall or whatever. They collect it all from here,” Harry tells him. 

Louis lets go of his hand to instead tuck himself into Harry’s side, staring out at the park with appreciation. “I always thought it was just like, a park. I didn’t think there was a castle,” he chuckles. 

“I thought the same thing,” Harry laughs. It’s hard to recall the exact feeling he had when he experienced all these places for the first time, but he knows it had felt similar, like he’d never seen a place with so much energy and didn’t have the reference to even imagine them. 

“I wanna see what it’s like in the summer,” Louis says after a while, turning away from the view point to get moving again. 

It makes Harry’s heart swell that Louis’ already thinking that far ahead, that he plans to be here, maybe at Belvedere Castle or maybe Bethesda Fountain, come summer. Harry lets himself daydream as they walk back through the park, Louis’ hand finding its way back into his coat pocket. He hopes by summer Louis won’t just be visiting, but living here or, at the very least, getting ready to relocate. He knows it’s not fair to expect Louis to move east for him, but Harry’s optimistic he’s ready for a change, the next step in his life that he didn’t get to take when they’d graduated. 

They wind back through the park and start to walk south, back towards the East Village and through the snowflakes that continue to spit. They vary from tiny flurries to huge, pillowy flakes, depending on the cloud that happens to pass overhead. It takes almost an hour to get back and while Harry didn’t feel the chill along the way, he feels it settle into his bones as he unlocks his apartment. He cranks the heat immediately and heads to the kitchen to put the kettle on, shedding his beanie and unwrapping himself along the way. 

“Tea?” he calls to Louis, reaching for their mugs in the drying rack, still there from the morning. 

Louis follows him, his hands already tucked into his jumper sleeves for the bit of extra warmth. “Please, yeah. Fucking freezing,” he agrees. 

“It’s got to be at least ten degrees warmer here than home, you know,” Harry points out as he settles a tea bag in each mug and then turns to lean back against the counter, arms crossed. There’s amusement dancing across his face, demeanor teasing. 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know I’m from the Midwest, Harold. Doesn’t make me like the cold anymore.”

“At least it means I can warm you up,” Harry says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively until Louis rolls his eyes again.

“Is that your angle?” Louis snorts.

Harry shrugs innocently, wide grin appearing that makes the dimple cave in on his cheek, and pours boiling water into each mug. He carefully passes Louis’ across the island. 

“Careful. Give it a second to cool off,” Harry says, well aware that Louis will take a gulp regardless of how much steam is coming off the top. In fact, Louis lifts the mug for a sip and Harry glares before he gets it halfway to his mouth. “ _Leave_ _it_.”

“Know me so well,” Louis chuckles with a resigned shake of his head, placing the mug back down, but holding onto it with both hands for the warmth.

Harry rests on his forearms across from him, own tea sat patiently beside him. “Want to tuck up on the couch, watch it snow? Can see if there’s a movie on as well.”

Louis nods and looks back towards the living room, the broad bay windows aglow with the streetlights outside, illuminating the snowfall. “Are we supposed to get much?”

“Think a few inches. Nothing major,” Harry answers as he picks up his mug to cradle in his hands. He has a fleeting thought that a major snowstorm would ground Louis’ flight out of New York and contemplates praying to the atmosphere for a blizzard. 

The living room has finally warmed up and Harry turns the lamps on, bouncing toasty, comforting light off the walls. He tucks the quilt around both of them and hands the remote to Louis, but they both end up staring out the windows instead, Harry tucked in against Louis’ chest, snug. He sips his tea and lets it warm him from the inside out, like a hug for the soul, though he’s certain he owes most of that to Louis’ embrace, both arms tucked in around his waist. 

It’s quiet, but not tense, and while Harry has no incessant need to fill the silence, he finds himself asking what he’s phrased in so many ways already today, an itch that hasn’t been satisfied. “Do you think you’ll move here?” he whispers, tilting his head back against Louis’ shoulder. 

Louis doesn’t answer right away, but takes a careful sip of his tea, either thinking or buying time. “I don’t know, Harry. I’ve only been here 24 hours,” he chuckles. 

“Yeah, but I’m here,” Harry reasons, trying not to let the petulance sink into his voice. “Isn’t that what matters?”

Louis draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Of course it matters, H… But my family lives in Wisconsin. My  _ life _ is in Wisconsin. It’s… a big decision to just pack up and leave.”

“But you never meant to stay there, did you?” Harry points out. He knows he’s pushing, but he can’t stand wading through the next few months not knowing where they’re headed, what their ultimate plan is. 

“No, but. Things change. It helped mom out for me to stay, help with the girls, the little ones,” Louis answers, his voice even. 

Harry frowns. “But that’s not what you wanted, Lou.”

“Not at the time, but that’s the direction that was meant for me. I’m alright with it,” Louis says firmly. Harry’s not sure if he’s trying to shut down this conversation or convince himself it’s true, but he knows he should let it go. And yet-

“You have to start your own life, Louis,” Harry sighs. 

Because Harry knows Louis. Knows how much he loves his family, how loyal he is to everyone around him, how much he’ll give up until there’s nothing left for himself. He’s done it since they were barely teenagers, did it all through high school, and he’s done it his entire adult life, giving up his dreams and his chance at making a life for himself and instead resigning himself to the hand he was dealt. 

“I  _ have _ started my life, Harry. I’m fine with my choices. I’m  _ happy _ with my life,” Louis bites, shifting behind Harry to put some distance between them so they can see one another properly. 

There’s a little too much emphasis, false conviction in Louis’ tone, to make Harry believe it’s true. He refuses to back down so easily, be swayed by a bold faced lie. “Oh c’mon, Louis. Really? This is the life you wanted? Living in the same town you grew up in? Working at  _ Poh’s _ ?” 

Louis throws his head back and laughs, but there’s no humor in it and it soaks into Harry like cold rain, chilling. “Oh, of course. Of  _ course  _ this is what it’s about. Because you make, what. Hundreds of thousands a year and I barely make enough in tips to pay my mom rent? You think I can just drop my life because it’s what, mediocre? Total shit? Sorry we can’t all be a Rockefeller, Harry, playing a big shot in the city. Sorry I can’t just fucking bail on everyone in my life to run away from my problems.”

“That’s not what I said, Louis. I didn’t mean -“ Harry starts, but his vision suddenly swims with anger and he stops, his chest tight with hurt. “Fuck you. You know why I left. You know I had to get out of there.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, just leans against the arm of the sofa and stares back towards the kitchen. “Yeah, well. I’m not you,” he says finally. “I can’t abandon everything I know and everyone that needs me just to play house with you.”

Harry wants to scream, wants to lunge across the couch and strangle Louis. He wants to squeeze him  so hard he forces him to see reason. But he doesn’t do any of that, instead throwing the quilt off viciously as he stands with his mug. 

“I’m going to bed. I’ve a headache,” he says, dismissive, as he shuffles back across the living room. He feels like a dog retreating with its tail between his legs and grows angry at himself for proving Louis  _ right _ , that he always turns and runs when things get difficult. But that’s  _ not  _ what he’s doing, he tells himself. He’s just giving Louis space. 

He’s about to round the corner when he turns back and takes a look at Louis, knuckles white around the mug as he stares hard at its contents. Even with all the hurt, all the anger, harbored in Harry’s chest, Louis’ still the only person he wants. 

“You have to take a chance on something sometime, Lou,” he says, voice soft, all the heat extinguished. 

Louis’ silent, turned away from Harry and facing the windows now, body language closed and evasive. Harry frowns deeply, the ache spreading from his chest to his limbs, disappointed. This was not how he anticipated their conversation going and certainly not what he expected Louis’ last evening to be like. It fills Harry with regret, wishing desperately to rewind to an hour ago so he could keep his mouth shut, enjoy Louis’ company, keep the night free of heavy decisions. It’s a waste of the precious time they have together, Harry thinks, to be in his apartment and in different rooms, not speaking, both stubborn and quietly fuming at one another from their respective corners. 

He closes the door to his bedroom and feels like he did at eighteen, longing for Louis to chase after him. Instead, it feels like his heart has been caught on the door jam, crushed into the frame.

x

It’s just after 5am when Harry hears his bedroom door click, the hinges whining as it’s pushed open and the soft padding of feet following just after. He’s been awake much of the night, letting his thoughts spin in never ending circles that leave him angry and hurt and sad and regretful all at once. He blames Louis and then blames himself and then repeats the process until his feelings are so convoluted that it doesn’t really matter anymore who’s at fault. 

Louis is trying to be quiet as he retrieves his suitcase, but Harry rolls over anyway, sitting up on an elbow to watch him, and feels his heart unravel knowing he’ll be alone in a few hours, Louis taking the end of the string with him all the way back to Wisconsin. 

“Lou,” he whispers, rubbing at a sleepless eye with one hand. 

Louis looks up, almost startled from what Harry can make out in the darkness, the sun still dormant at this hour. “Sorry. Was trying not to wake you,” he answers back, soft. 

“You didn’t. Didn’t get much sleep, anyway,” Harry says. He picks at a thread on the duvet, nerves shot and anxiety making him fidget.

Louis sighs and drops his head back on his shoulders. “Yeah, me either.”

They both stay frozen, watching one another carefully and averting their eyes immediately when they catch. Harry caves first, smoothing his hand across the duvet on the other side of the bed, patting it with an invitation. “C’mere.”

For a moment, Harry’s worried Louis is still angry, is going to reject him and tell him that he’s thought about it, that this is just not going to work. There’s a part of Harry that wouldn’t blame him. If they’re both too stubborn to move, too weak for long distance, then Harry’s not sure how they’re supposed to make this work or if they’ve just been playing pretend all along with childish hopefulness. But then Louis lets go of his luggage and crosses the room, folding himself down into the bedding beside Harry. He rests on his side and tucks his hands under his cheek, eyes focused on the shape of Harry’s face even in the darkness. Harry can’t see the color of his eyes, but he knows how blue they must be, the way they always are when they’re a window to every emotion cycling through Louis’ mind. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers. He reaches out and drags a hand down over Louis’ chest, fingers curling in his t-shirt. “I don’t wanna fight.”

“I know.” Louis’ voice is just as soft as Harry’s, no more than a matching whisper. He sets his hand over Harry’s on his chest, winding around it until their fingers lace. “It’s okay. I’m sorry too.”

Harry nods, shimmying forward to tuck his head under Louis’ chin, breathe him in and absorb his warmth. Panic fills him once more that he let his fury, his obstinance, get the better of him, that he chose to spend their last night upset, alone, rather than together. In the moment, he’d wanted to get away from Louis’ assumptions, his arrogant claims that he had any idea what Harry had gone through, but now, in hindsight, he can’t imagine how he let something so petty keep them apart on borrowed time. He’s angry again, but this time only with himself. 

“I ruined our last night together,” Harry murmurs. Tears burn hot at the corners of his eyes before he can stop them and he squeezes them shut, but they roll anyway, damp on Louis’ t-shirt. 

Louis shakes his head and wraps an arm around him, rubbing circles into the small of Harry’s back and easing the tension. “Shhh. Was me too,” he whispers. “I’ll be back. You know I will.”

And Harry does. He knows he’ll be back, but he has no idea when, how long it will be until they can lay together, unsure where one begins and the other ends. His chest is already tight with longing, like an anvil is sat square over his heart, missing Louis so desperately even though he’s right beside him. It makes him hold on tighter, tangling their legs together under the duvet and clutching at his t-shirt, as if only he could get close enough they’d be one person. 

“I’ve to get to the airport soon, love,” Louis says some time later, nosing at the top of Harry’s head. 

Harry nods, but be doesn’t budge until Louis gets restless, shifting to sit up and making his way from beneath the blankets. When Harry looks up at him, he already feels far away, the exhaustion on his face palpable in the circles beneath his eyes. Even with no sleep, drained from a stupid argument that makes his bones weary and his posture weak, Louis is still lovely in every way. Harry realizes then that he’ll never give up, no matter how much it physically aches and feels like he’s withering. He won’t be the one to throw in the towel and abandon him. 

“Try to get some sleep,” Louis says as he packs up the last of his things. One of Harry’s stray t-shirts makes its way into his suitcase and Harry knows it’s not an accident. 

Harry shakes his head, voice still deep and heavy from lack of use overnight. “‘m coming with. Wanna see you off.”

“You don’t have to do that. Can get there just fine on my own,” Louis says. It’s the signature roll of his eyes, a hint of a smile threatening his lips, that makes Harry know they’ll be alright. 

“I told work I’d be in later. I’m coming,” Harry says, unwavering. He rolls sideways out of bed, taking half the bedding with him as he gets to his feet. 

They leave with enough time to pick up another bagel sandwich before calling an Uber to JFK. All the anger of the previous evening has dissipated and they’re soft and tender with one another, almost cautious in their touches, quiet and gentle. It’s hard to find much to animatedly chat about not only because of the hour, but because Harry feels like a tsunami of woe barely contained by weak walls. He watches Louis track the city, crawling past out the window, already thick with Monday morning traffic as dawn breaks. There’s a frown set on his mouth and Harry knows he doesn’t want to leave just as much as he hates to see him go. 

JFK is alive, but sleepy, and compared to the afternoons and evenings, it’s almost desolate. There’s no line at security, the zigzag queue a ghost town, so they stand at the end, shuffling their feet and running the clock down to the last seconds. Harry can go no further and Louis’ not ready to put himself on the other side of the metal detectors just yet, out of reach. 

Harry breaks first. “So. This is it.”

“Yeah, this is it. This is me,” Louis says, looking over his shoulder to security. It’s somehow more depressing with barely a soul around, the TSA workers bored and half asleep. 

Harry had promised himself he wouldn’t cry, but he can feel the twinge in his jaw as he grits his back teeth, bottom lip trembling with the effort. Louis just  _ got _ here; it seems like all he had to do was blink to bring upon goodbyes. He sucks in a deep breath and when he lets it out, his shoulders shake with the weight of his sadness. “See you soon?” he whispers, his voice wavering. 

Louis nods. He doesn’t cry, but he collapses forward into Harry’s chest, hugs him so hard that he nearly sends him to the floor. “See you soon.  _ Soon _ . I promise, H. Swear it,” he mumbles into his shoulder, muffled. 

Harry nods his head rapidly, too choked up to respond, and clings tightly, his hand fisted in the back of Louis’ denim jacket. 

“I gotta go,” Louis whispers, voice thick with dejection. His grip on Harry loosens and it makes his heart squeeze painfully. 

Harry nods again as he sniffles into Louis’ shoulder, finally standing straight with another quivering breath. “Be safe, okay? Good flight.”

“I’ll text you as soon as I land,” Louis promises, shouldering his backpack as he turns towards security. 

Harry watches him go, his hair still mussed from a restless night on the couch and his clothes rumpled. It tugs at Harry’s heartstrings, twists the guilt in his gut, and makes him want to drag him back to bed at the same time. He’s breathless when he calls out, “Lou!”

Louis turns, brows furrowed with confusion or maybe curiosity. 

“I love you,” Harry tells him, raw, honest. He could never let him leave his sight, fly 30,000 feet in the air, without telling him. 

Louis smiles, eyes disappearing behind the crinkles of unfiltered happiness. “I love you,” he yells back, kissing three of his fingers and sending them back towards Harry. 

And then he’s gone. Harry watches him take off his shoes, sort his belongings into bins, and keeps watching until he vanishes entirely, around the corner to his gate. Louis doesn’t look back and Harry can’t blame him, certain his expression, body language, entire  _ being _ would implore him to stay. It would just make it more difficult on both of them. Louis’ always been intuitive like that, strong enough to make the hard decisions that protect both of them. 

Harry needs to be at the office at some point during the morning, but he takes a seat by the endless windows stretching the length of the runway and watches the planes take off and land. He loses track of time and realizes he has no idea which of the departing flights was Louis’, but that he is long gone, has been airborne for almost twenty minutes. It causes a new wave of remorse that he’s missed it, swallowing him whole. It’s irrational to feel so much despair, he tells himself, but he can’t help it when his chest feels hollow and his heart is on its way back to the Midwest. 

He sits for another few minutes, but there’s nothing left to wait for, no point in wasting time staring bleakly at the jetway just beyond the windows. He gets up and heads back through the airport, back to his life that feels very much  _ before Louis _ , all of its previous luster absent. 

x

If January was cold and wet, then February passes in a collection of bitter, raw days that do nothing to soothe Harry’s heartache and smarts to the bone. There’s several storms that bury the city under a heap of snow, making travel impossible and doing anything else at all an utter pain in the ass. Harry’s never cared much for the cold, but there’s always been something charming about bunkering down for a blizzard, grabbing a stack of films and books and curling his hands around a hot drink. It’s always been an unofficial ritual he’s partaken in by himself, but this year it feels particularly lonely, like nothing quite satisfies the boredom of being stuck inside without someone to share it with. He’s seen all the movies in his stack several times, none of his books catch his interest, and even the cocoa tastes too sweet, coating his tongue in an unpleasant chocolate-y blanket.

Work is equally as miserable - for both of them. Louis’ been pulling double shifts to cover an ill coworker, only home to sleep, shower, and shove some old takeaway in his mouth before he’s back at Poh’s the next day. Harry finds himself buried under a mountain of documents on his desk, never growing smaller and consistently trying to consume him, and practically lives at Columbia. Their schedules don’t line up, Harry already locked in his office when Louis has the morning to himself and, when Harry’s finally stepping through the door to his apartment, Louis’ well into his shift that lasts into the hours of the next morning. There’s a brisk phone call here, a rushed Facetime there, but they’ve taken to sending long blocks of text to one another that they read in fragments of spare time they get. They’re more or less life updates, trying to fit their entire days into a few messages that they barely have time to glance at, let alone respond to. 

_ Louis (10:59AM): hey h. omw in again. mad night last night. tim got so drunk and wouldn’t leave at lst call. had to ring the police to get him out and then he chose to pick a fight. not sure if they arrested him or just threw him in the drunk tank. was a whole thing. thank fuck tomorrow is my day off. not covering for anyone. they can close the fuckin place for all i care. can’t wait to sleep. u got some time tomorrow night? xx _

_ Harry (8:45PM): Hi babe. That’s insane. Is he going to be allowed back? It’s probably for the best if he’s not. Maybe he can get his life on track. Crazy here. Loads of new artists we’re scouting, so going through the contracts now that we might potentially pitch to them. I’m all yours tomorrow night after work. Let me know what time and I’ll make sure I’m home. Miss you loads xxx _

The early days of long distance, slow evenings spent on the phone or on Facetime, are long gone, a memory that feels as distant as the Christmas holidays. Harry feels like he’s in a perpetually bad mood, only brightening when he sees a text come across or knows he might have five minutes to chat with Louis while he’s outside on his smoke break. The mountain of documents on his desk hasn’t helped, nor has the constant sniping from his colleagues, everyone within arm’s length glum and tetchy with the unfaltering winter. At least he’s had the solace of his office, a hideaway to ride out the thunder of his own despondent moods. 

Harry’s on his way home from the office, a bag of groceries from Whole Foods tucked into his arm, when Louis shoots him a text. It’s a picture message and Harry’s half expecting it to be a shot of Louis’ dick when he opens it, but it’s just him. Soft in one of Harry’s hoodies that he doesn’t remember him stealing, his hair fluffy like it’s just dried from  the shower. Underneath the photo:

_ Louis (7:57PM): hope ur home x _

Harry was already hurrying with the wind chasing at his back, but he rushes the last couple of blocks back to his apartment with renewed purpose. Even his groceries are forgotten, all thoughts of dinner taking a backseat to blue eyes and messy fringe. 

He’s already ringing Louis on Facetime by the time he makes it through the door, hopping around while unlacing his oxfords and trying to get his bag of groceries to the kitchen at the same time. Harry’s out of breath and flushed from the chill outside when Louis picks up and floods the screen, eyebrows raising curiously. 

“Isn’t it 8PM there?” Louis asks. “What the hell are you doing just getting home?”

Harry nods, setting his phone up on the island, propped with a wine bottle. “Yeah. This is generally when I always get home,” he chuckles. 

“But you’re at the office at like, 6AM!” Louis protests, incredulous. 

Harry unpacks his groceries with a shrug, contemplating what he has the energy to make. “Those are good hours for a lawyer, babe.”

“I’m going to call your boss. Demand better work life balance,” Louis tells him, rustling around as he gets comfortable.

Harry laughs. “Says the one who’s finally earned his first day off in what, twelve days? Fourteen? Works until 2AM every night?”

“Those are good hours for a bartender, babe,” Louis mimics. 

It’s Harry’s turn to roll his eyes for once. He starts to chop lettuce for a salad, topping it with a variety of colorful veggies to fill it out. “Are you still teaching?” he asks, a hopeful lilt to the question. 

“Not at the mo’,” Louis tells him with a sigh. “I’ve been pulling so many doubles I can’t make the mornings anymore if I want to keep my sanity. Once Max is back I can, I’ve told them.”

Harry nods, eating a pinch of shredded carrot. “Good. Don’t let that go, Lou. That was always your dream.”

Louis snorts. “Being a part time teacher’s aid? Not quite.”

“You know what I mean,” Harry says, trying not to let the frown he can hear in his voice pull at his mouth. 

Harry sets about marinating a piece of salmon in soy sauce sweetened with a bit of brown sugar, setting it on a tin to broil. It’s mostly a means of distraction, a way to bite his tongue and not cause a fight during the first proper conversation they’ve had in days. He doesn’t want to be so petty as to say  _ I told you so. I told you you weren’t happy _ , but it’s difficult not to when he knows Louis is killing himself at the bar. 

“What are you making over there anyway?” Louis asks, leaning close to the camera as if he can actually glance right past the frame and see himself. 

Harry’s glad for the change in topic. “Just a salad with an Asian dressing and some salmon. Nothing fancy.”

“Sounds fancy to me. And healthy,” Louis chuckles, laying back once again. 

Harry laughs as he checks on the fish. “I’m saving all my calories for your next visit,” he jokes. 

“Speaking of. I’m thinking March. Probably later in the month?” Louis tells him. “I’ll let you know once I’ve booked it so that  _ someone  _ doesn’t do it for me instead.”

Harry’s heart soars in both surprise and elation, but then dips when he realizes it’s at least three weeks away. He has to remind himself to always be grateful for the time he gets to see and spend with Louis. Two minutes ago there wasn’t a date on the calendar at all, even ballpark, and their separation had an unknown expiration. Now he’s got something to look forward to, a bright spot of sunshine at the end of a long winter and what looks to be a late spring. 

“Absolutely,” Harry breathes, his words and volume stolen with the increase in his heartbeat. 

Louis smiles. Even over Facetime, he radiates happiness. “Better get your contracts done then.”

“I’ll take the time off. No work. Promise,” Harry says. He draws an ‘X’ across his heart to seal it and then turns out of frame to plate his dinner. 

They chat about their respective weeks as he eats, though it’s mostly Louis relaying stories about his customers or tales they’ve told him about people around town. At one time, Harry knew almost everyone within six degrees of them, their friends, or family, but now he’s not got a clue who Louis’ talking about. It doesn’t really matter to him, though, as he lets Louis’ voice wrap around him in ribbons. Harry thinks he could read the dictionary and he’d still hang onto every word raptly, in love with his high tenor, his pronunciation and the way he speaks quickly, complimenting Harry’s own slow drawl. After surviving primarily on texts, Louis’ voice breathes life back into Harry’s heart. 

“Must’ve hung a sign on the door welcoming all the assholes in. Between Tim causing a scene and me ex showing up, made for a real interesting week,” Louis muses after Harry’s fallen silent. 

If he was trying to get Harry’s attention, it does the trick. They’ve talked about loads of things over the past two months - funny stories about Niall, how Liam and Zayn got together, Harry’s job and Louis’ pursuit of keeping his sisters on the straight and narrow - but they’ve given a wide berth to any chat about past relationships. There’s a curiosity that lives just under Harry’s skin, as he imagines there is for Louis, but it has the potential to be awkward, uncomfortable. With their relationship so fragile at times with distance and all the unknowns, he’s hesitant and fearful of causing another argument. 

“Does he? She? Live in Sturgeon Bay?” Harry asks, casual, playing it safe with his line of questioning. 

“He,” Louis answers. “And no. He’s in Green Bay, I think, or maybe Chicago. Was visiting since he was apparently in Puerto Rico over Christmas.” 

“Ah, makes sense then,” Harry says, rather lamely, unsure of how much he’s allowed to ask or know. 

Louis nods and then shrugs. “Got a job in the city. Wasn’t really going to work, you know? With me here.”

Harry’s breath stutters, comes to a complete stop, as his heart attempts to thunder from his chest. The implications in Louis’ words make him want to be ill and it must show on his face because Louis rushes forth to back it up before Harry can respond. 

“Not that that’s gonna happen with us! It’s completely different, Harry,” Louis tells him, shaking his head vehemently on the other end. “We were just casually dating. Was more like hooking up, actually, looking back on it. I didn’t, you know. Love him. Certainly not like I love you.” Louis’ expression turns bashful; he ducks his head and glances away, out of frame. 

Harry takes a deep, steadying breath, slightly reassured. “How long were you together?”

“‘bout a year,” Louis answers with a shrug. “I’d never had a proper boyfriend until Jared. Couple one night stands here and there, figuring myself out, but Jared was the first one I saw, you know. Dated. Was mostly sex in the end.”

“Were you upset about it? Him moving?” Harry asks, frowning. His chest hurts at the mere thought of Louis, broken and hurting, even if it’s over a guy that’s not him. 

“At first. Hard to let go of that first… you know, infatuation? I guess? Even that feels too strong of a word now,” Louis says, his head tilting back against the headboard behind him in thought. “I think I was more upset about losing that companionship. I missed the idea of being with someone, knowing I was gonna be on my own again.”

Harry nods, quiet with understanding. “Did you see anyone after?” 

Louis shakes his head. “Nah, not seriously. Nothing really felt worth it. Never met anyone I wanted to try for.”

It makes Harry sad to hear that, the loneliness bleeding through in Louis’ voice, but he’s conflicted with a simultaneous gratefulness that Louis was still single. Harry had gotten the shock of his life running into Louis on his first evening back in Sturgeon Bay, but he knows he would’ve spent the holidays not  only pining, but moping, if he’d been happily involved.

“What about you?” Louis asks, effectively snapping the silence they’d fallen into. 

Harry chuckles, leaning back against the sofa and immediately starting to fidget. “We’ll be here all night.”

“Jesus,” Louis says, but he’s smiling, seemingly unbothered by Harry’s list of partners. “Hope my inexperience didn’t show.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Did it seem like it did?”

“Nope,” Louis says, popping the ‘p’ with a deep smirk, clearly pleased with himself. 

“No serious boyfriends,” Harry sighs as he circles back to the original question. “Flings. Some longer than others. But I was kind of hung up on…” he trails off and bites his lip, but pushes on, choosing honesty over his pride. “You. Stupidly, at the time. Because I never thought I’d see you again. But you still lived inside my head, my heart, everything I did. Less so with time, but. I never stopped loving you, Louis. Wouldn’t have been fair to try to give my heart to someone else when I knew it was always gonna belong to you.”

When Harry looks back to his phone, Louis’ eyes have gone glassy, glittery with the low lighting of his room. “Missed you a lot, H. Looked for you in every stranger that walked into Poh’s. Thought I was having a fucking dream when I saw you at your mom’s party that night. Or that I was hallucinating.”

“Oh god,” Harry laughs, but his throat is choked with emotion. He looks around his apartment, thinking he’d trade it all, every last one of his belongings, to be able to wrap his arms around Louis right now, press his face into the crook of his neck and breathe in his skin. “I wanted to sink through the deck and into the snow that night. Had no idea what to say to you.”

“I know,” Louis laughs. “But I didn’t either. Finally had you there in front of me and there was so much going through my head that it just went blank.”

Harry hums in solidarity. “Me too. It had been so long.”

“Yeah, it had been,” Louis agrees, but he smiles anyway, soft and intimate, just for Harry. “Worked out anyway.” 

The way Louis says it, so easy and so sure, sets all the unrest of Harry’s soul at ease, calms the buzz of anxiety that lives in his chest driven by the unknown. Louis doesn’t seem to have any doubts about him, them, this thing they’ve got together, so Harry reminds himself he shouldn’t either. He needs to relax and let time work its magic; it got around to it ten years later, so there’s no reason it won’t work this time. Things always pan the way they’re meant to, Harry thinks, even when he often (read:  _ constantly _ ) questions the path. 

“You should get some sleep, babe. You look dead tired,” Louis says eventually. He’s an hour behind, but he looks like he’s fighting a doze himself. 

Harry can’t help the sleepy pout that takes over his face. They’ve only just begun talking, he wants to tell Louis, but when he glances at the time, they’ve been on the phone nearly two and a half hours and it’s creeping towards 11PM. 

“Hopefully I can catch you tomorrow?” Harry ventures. 

Louis chuckles, but it’s wry, tired. “You gonna be awake at 3AM when I get home?” he teases. 

“No, but I’ll try to catch you in the morning. I don’t think I’ve got any meetings on,” Harry says. He quickly flips out of Facetime to check his calendar, letting out a pleased breath when he sees it’s clear until noon. 

“What are we gonna talk about in, what. Twelve hours? Are we going to discuss our dreams? Maybe journal about them together?” Louis asks, amusement dancing across his features and through his voice. 

Harry sighs. If Louis were right beside him, he’d shove him clear across the couch. “Fine! If you don’t wanna talk to me, I’ll move up all my meetings!” he says, indignant. 

“Only teasing you, gorgeous. Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Louis tells him, eyes still bright, but voice softening with affection. 

Harry tries to remain unaffected, but he caves a second later, cracks a smile as he stretches and yawns. Louis sends him off to bed for the second time, urging him off the sofa and only satisfied when Harry starts moving, collecting his plate to take to the kitchen. 

“Sweet dreams, H,” Louis says. He pauses, question marks always over their goodbyes. Say it or don’t say it, express it with another sentiment or save it for next time. Louis presses ahead. “Love you.”

Harry beams, smiles so hard that his cheeks hurt almost immediately. “Love you loads.”

As it goes, they don’t talk the next day. Harry gets put on an 8AM meeting that lasts through the morning and Louis gets called in early for bar prep. Unlike the last few weeks, the distress that usually accompanies their conflicting schedules is absent. Louis shoots him a variety of heart emojis before he goes in for his shift and Harry sends back an image, a poorly drawn heart on his memo pad. The exchange brings a smile to his face that lasts through the day, lingering even when the sun dips low in the sky welcoming late afternoon.

They’re getting better at this, Harry thinks, at missing each other. It still hurts, the ever present throb of longing, but he knows Louis is thinking of him. And for today, that’s enough. 

x

“What’s this about again?”

Harry tries not to let his exasperation show as he looks over at Louis and attempts to summarize  _ Chicago _ in a few sentences. “Honestly, Louis. Haven’t you seen the film at least? You love musicals.” 

Louis shakes his head. “Never got around to that one. Maybe I wanted to save it. See it properly on Broadway.” 

“You never even had plans to visit New York,” Harry points out as he rolls his eyes. As usual, he’s still smiling; Louis’ talent for logicking his way through anything, no matter how ridiculous, has no bounds. Harry’s incredibly endeared. 

It’s late March and the weather has finally started to turn, fingers of warmth creeping in by noon that brings everyone who’s been hibernating out in droves. The streets are busy with locals and tourists alike and by the time they make it to Broadway, they’re walking far slower, caught behind a family with nowhere to dodge around lest they run face first into oncoming foot traffic. There’s no rush, though; Harry had secured their tickets ahead of Louis’ visit and there’s plenty of time before the show to just wander, soak up the atmosphere and good fortune that has the temperature over fifty degrees today. 

Louis had arrived the evening before, a Friday that had felt chaotic from the moment Harry opened his eyes. Work seemed to never stop rupturing like an unsettled volcano and he’d been glad the weekend was upon him and that with it, came Louis and a few uninterrupted days together. Unlike last time, Louis had booked his time in New York through Wednesday, forcing Harry to take additional time off, though it was more than welcome. Harry had realized his vacation time had steadily built to the point it had stopped accruing altogether. He was due to take some time away. 

They’d spent the evening with New York style pizza and breadsticks between the both of them, talking about anything of note they hadn’t discussed the last few weeks. Louis still had his hands full at work and at home, he had his eyes on Phoebe and Daisy at all times, ensuring they completed their school work and weren’t legging it out the window to meet up with friends. Harry had talked a bit about work, but he’d grown bored and felt a headache forming just from the sheer amount of energy he’d been dedicating to the label lately. 

Once dinner had been digested, though, Louis left no room for distraction. He’d been on top of Harry with a sort of confidence that had made Harry so hot and hard, he’d had to stop for a moment, an orgasm already pulling ruthlessly in the pit of his stomach just from Louis’ hips rolling in his lap. Louis had only grinned wickedly and slid to the floor, blowing him so thoroughly that Harry was certain his brain had vacated his body through his cock when he’d come minutes later. And so the rest of the night had passed in a flash of skin, first in the living room, and then later, in the dim glow of Harry’s bedroom, Louis opening himself up on his own fingers before he rode Harry with desperation that only bloomed from weeks, months spent apart. 

That morning had been a replay, an encore in slow motion, taking one another apart lazily against Harry’s sheets, barely awake enough to do much more than keen and twist into every touch. When they’d finally roused and rolled from bed, Harry had made Louis a breakfast of French toast with leftover brioche, stuffed decadently with jam and cream cheese, and a side of crispy bacon that Louis had declared he wanted to eat for the rest of his life. Harry had only smiled, dimple deep in his cheek, at the idea, and hoped he was still making Louis’ bacon for him after he’d long since gone grey.

“Figured we could see the show and then grab a late bite?” Harry suggests as they walk, his fingers loosely linked with Louis’. 

Louis agrees, though Harry thinks he would assent to anything at this point, still hazy with leftover lust. “Yeah, perfect. Not hungry anyway after you stuffed me with food this morning.” 

“That bacon, though,” Harry laughs, recalling the memory fondly. 

Louis tilts his head back and moans. “Best thing I’ve ever eaten.  _ Ever. _ ”

The dramatics would make Harry scoff if not for the pride that takes right over. “I’m happy you liked it, babe. It’s easy to make.”

“Don’t tell me that. I only want you to make it for me,” Louis tells him, laughing. 

They find the playhouse for  _ Chicago _ after a bit of wandering on Broadway. Louis insists on getting a photo in front of it, so Harry takes a couple for him, one that’s a typical tourist photo and a few that have Harry’s artistic flair to them. A friendly college student offers to take one of both of them and they eagerly nod, posing for the photo as Harry wraps an arm around Louis’ shoulders and Louis’ finds its natural spot around his waist. At the last second, Harry turns and kisses Louis’ cheek, leaves his lips planted there with affection even as the girl takes a few more snaps for them to choose from.

“Thanks a lot!” Louis calls to her as she hands his phone back and starts walking again. She just shoots him a thumbs up and a wide smile, the backpack slung over her shoulder decorated with an NYU patch and a rainbow. 

Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ waist from behind as he looks over his shoulder at the photos. “It’s a shame you don’t have Instagram. These are cute,” he says, reaching forward to swipe back on the photo that’s most zoomed in. 

They’re both thinking the same thing. The photo looks so similar to the one Louis had stolen from Harry’s family’s photo albums. All that’s missing is a Santa hat, Harry’s boisterous curls, and the youthfulness they’d both exhibited a decade ago. But the obvious joy is so painfully present that Harry can’t imagine anyone looking at the image and not feeling it too. He experienced the moment for himself and his heart still beats twice as fast looking at it, eyes focused on the details of Louis’ face, his wide smile parted in laughter and blue eyes lost to the crinkles that have only gotten deeper with age. 

“I don’t need to share this with anyone, Curly,” Louis says, shaking his head. 

Harry gets what he means. It’s just for them and the validation of social media is unnecessary, unimportant. This photo will live in Louis’ phone as intimately as the one from a decade ago, now taped lovingly to the inside cover of Harry’s journal.

_ Chicago _ , as Harry expected, is incredible. He’s seen the show before, twice back in college, but it’s the experience of seeing it with Louis that makes it one of a kind. Louis is rapt with the performance from start to finish, captivated by the dancers and shaking his foot to the tunes. He leans forward during the “Cell Block Tango” and laughs openly with the rest of the crowd when the cast launches into “We Both Reached For the Gun,” amused with the illusion of marionettes. Harry had forgotten just how much Louis loves musicals and finds himself watching Louis more than the play itself, completely taken with his unabashed enjoyment. This was the right one to take him to, Harry knows, the songs catchy and the story gripping with a twist of humor.

When the show wraps, Louis takes his playbill with him for a memory and buys a t-shirt as well, rattling off his intention to cut the sleeves and turn it into a tank. They spend the entire subway ride to Chinatown discussing the show, Louis’ favorite songs and who he thought the strongest cast members were. Harry comes up short a few times when asked for his opinion, having been so totally and completely distracted by Louis himself that his only answer is  _ you _ . 

Harry takes them to 456 New Shanghai when they depart from the subway for dim sum and dumplings, something warming and delicious, but the atmosphere relaxed and casual, not masquerading as anything other than good food. The fluorescent lighting is terrible and the tables are packed in tight, but neither of them notice, high on Broadway and the promise of dumplings until they explode.

It’s these places, Harry notices, that Louis seems to feel most comfortable. All the high brow glamour of New York doesn’t reel him in the way it does with tourists, nor does it impress him. But these little hole in the wall restaurants set his shoulders at ease, let his smiles come freely. He stops trying to fit into this city and just lets himself be, comforted by his surroundings that feel a little like home, unpolished and stripped back. Those are the moments Harry can really see their lives working together here, when it feels less like a pipe dream and a reality they’re truly working towards. 

Their entire table is filled with small plates of dumplings by the time all the food has arrived. Harry’s gone for a mix of crab and vegetable buns while Louis’ decided to keep it classic with pork, but in the end they share everything, reaching back and forth to load up their plates. 

“This place is a good one,” Louis comments when they’re about halfway through. It’s the first time they’ve spoken since their food arrived, their stomachs so empty and the dishes so tasty that eating has taken first priority. 

“There’s loads of places like this. Don’t get down here enough,” Harry says as he bites into a crispy, greasy spring roll. 

Louis reaches for his own roll. “We’ll have to change that. Make it a regular thing when I’m here.”

Harry’s not sure if he’s talking about when he visits or if and when he’s living in New York permanently, but he toes the line carefully. “Could be a Saturday night tradition,” he says. 

“Saturday night, eh? That’s a lot of flights,” Louis jokes, his tone light. 

Harry’s stomach feels like it’s constantly on a rollercoaster, swinging with the ups and plummeting immediately after. “Well…” he trails. “I suppose I meant -“

Louis cuts him off. “I know what you meant, babe.” He says it with no finality, his interruption not so much a shutdown as it is understanding. “Been thinking more about it.”

The rollercoaster climbs again at dizzying speed. “You have?” Harry breathes, a bun poised halfway to his mouth. 

“Yeah, just. You know. All of it. How, when. The logistics of it,” Louis says. He hooks a foot around Harry’s ankle and then traps one of Harry’s own between his, anchoring himself with comfort. “It’s a lot to think about, you know what I mean? But I don’t want you to think that I’m  _ not _ thinking about it.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say, but knows he needed to hear that. So much of their future lies in question, but Harry often has no idea what that looks like inside Louis’ head, only his own. It relieves a cord of tension that he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying for the last few months. He’s afraid to speak, lest Louis slowly retreat from the subject, so he remains quiet, watching him openly from the other side of the table and giving him the floor to say what’s on his mind. 

“I miss you, you know? All the time. Always. I’m never not thinking about you,” Louis continues. He sets his chopsticks down to reach across the table for Harry’s hand. “I want this to work, for us to be together. But I have to make sure it’s the right move for me too. For both of us. I could never ask you to move back to Wisconsin, so I’m hoping you can understand where I’m coming from. I know it makes me sound like a selfish prick, but I don’t want to be impulsive about this.”

Harry nods so fast that he feels like a bobble head. It’s the most Louis’ spoken about moving and Harry wants him to feel safe in sharing with him, even if it’s not neat and perfectly aligned to what Harry desires.

“Of course, Lou. Of course I know it’s a big decision and a big move to make. You’re not selfish at all,” Harry tells him, his eyes earnest and imploring Louis to see that he means it. “You know how I feel. What I want. But I know I’m biased about this city. It’s done so much for me, my life. And I think it could do the same for you if you gave it a proper chance. But I want you to be happy here too. And not just because of me, but because it’s where you want to be.”

Louis’ shoulders sag, clearly relieved that he’s not walked them into another row. “Thank you. For saying that,” he sighs. “I know there’s this pressure on me to make a decision. And with good reason ‘cause this fucking sucks,” he laughs, gesturing between them to signify the distance. “But I just need a little more time.”

“Louis,” Harry says, asking for his full attention. “You don’t have to rush. I’ll wait as long as I need to. You’re it for me.”

That gets Louis, his lips parting in something like awe as he nods in understanding and swallows an obvious lump of emotion. “Me too.”

Harry smiles and curls his long fingers around Louis’ on top of the table with a reassuring squeeze. He wishes he had the words to tell Louis just how much his heart belongs to him, the poetic capabilities to make him see that his life is for him and him alone. They stare at one another, dim sum forgotten around them, and when blue meets green, soft with adoration and understanding, Harry thinks he doesn’t need words, that Louis knows anyway. 

They finish up the rest of their food with quiet conversation. Harry tells him a little bit about his coworkers come friends and other pals that are getting drinks that weekend. He’d canceled on them to spend it with Louis instead. It piques Louis’ curiosity and he shakes his head vehemently. 

“No! We should go. It’ll be fun. I don’t know any of these people you talk about, so it’d be nice to put some faces to the names,” Louis says. He scoffs and slaps Harry’s hand away from the check when it’s delivered to their table, setting down cash to cover it. “As long as you don’t mind me coming along.”

“Of course not! I just didn’t want to compromise our time together. That’s all,” Harry explains with a shrug. 

Louis smirks. “There’s only so many times I can make you come, baby.”

“Wanna test that theory?” Harry grins, playfully kicking him beneath the table with a raised eyebrow, a challenge. 

Louis pockets his wallet and gets up with a mischievous grin, holding his hand out for Harry’s to pull him back onto the street. 

They take a taxi back to the East Village and despite their teasing in the restaurant, manage to keep their hands to themselves, save for the hand Harry has spread on Louis’ thigh. There’s no room for lust; they quickly discover it smells like sweaty gym socks in the backseat and Harry quietly teases him about his wish to ride in a real New York taxi the whole way back. 

“Where’s Arthur when you need him?” Louis jokes, inching the window down for a breath of fresh air. 

Harry tilts his head back and laughs. “Oh,  _ now _ you want to be chauffeured around. Looks like New York fits you just fine.”

W hen they finally depart the taxi, Harry running his card through to pay for the fare, they both take great, big, dramatic breaths of air. It sets them off laughing all over again, enough so that Harry can’t get his keys in the door and Louis has to do it for him, shoving him inside with a hand at his back. 

The flat is a welcome sight and it’s only with new eyes that Harry sees that it looks lived in, not just by one person, but two. Louis’ trainers are by the door next to Harry’s boots, opting earlier for the spare pair he’d taken along, and there’s two empty mugs abandoned on the coffee table. It’s just a little glimpse, a snapshot of their lives together, and it makes Harry want to fill up his memories with these mental Polaroids of time spent together, the big joys and the little, seemingly insignificant ones as well. 

“Wine?” Harry suggests once he’s gotten his coat and boots off. 

Louis nods almost immediately. “Absolutely.” 

It’s become a bit of a routine, sharing a bottle of wine on nights spent at home, another tiny joy that signifies their relationship growing effortless as habits form. Harry takes his time uncorking the bottle and selecting glasses, dopily drifting from the counter to the cabinet, lost in his own thoughts of domesticity. His attention only snaps back to the moment when he hears the crackle of his record player and the opening bars of “Unknown Legend” filling the living room just beyond.

“Neil Young kind of night, is it?” Harry asks as Louis joins him in the kitchen, handing his glass to him. He takes a sip from his own. 

Louis nods, gesturing at Harry’s trousers. “Your flares put me in the mood,” he jokes. 

Harry just laughs and takes another sip of his wine, his hip resting against the island. When the song switches over, the gentle notes of “Harvest Moon” drifting to the kitchen, Harry holds a hand out to Louis. 

“What?” Louis asks quizzically, lips still against the edge of the wine glass. 

Harry rolls his eyes with an exasperated sigh. “Dance with me.”

“Harry -“ Louis begins to protest, but Harry stares at him expectantly and he immediately folds, setting his wine glass aside. He takes Harry’s hand and lets Harry pull him into his arms. 

Harry holds him close to his chest, one hand holding Louis’ tenderly over his heart while the other finds the dip of his waist. He’s not going for grand, sweeping ballroom dancing by any means, just soft swaying, far too caught up in the intimate bubble that surrounds them than actually dancing with any skill. 

“When we were strangers, I watched you from afar,” Harry sings softly against the shell of Louis’ ear. “When we were lovers, I loved you with all my heart.”

Louis closes his eyes, lashes delicate across his cheekbones, and Harry smiles when he sees the corners of Louis’ lips turning up. For all his protest, he seems content to just turn in an unhurried circle with Harry, sliding in their socked feet against the tiles. The rest of the world could be spinning in the opposite direction, turning day into night into day again, but it doesn’t matter, not to this moment, not to them. Harry pillows his cheek against Louis’ forehead, feels his breath against his jaw as his own eyes close. 

“But now it’s gettin’ late and the moon is climbin’ high,” Louis sings, voice higher than Harry’s, but hushed in their close proximity. “I want to celebrate, see it shinin’ in your eyes.”

Harry’s smile returns, lifting his head to look down at Louis mirroring his expression. The moment morphs into something more lighthearted when Harry places a firm hand at Louis’ waist and dips him backward. Louis yelps, but it dissolves into laughter, his eyes victim to the crinkles as he clutches and holds onto Harry’s shoulders for dear life. The sound of his laughter, his genuine happiness and joy, echoes around the kitchen until it finds a home in Harry’s heart.

The rest of the world can keep turning without him, Harry thinks. He’ll only ever belong in Louis’ orbit, a strange little planet revolving around a star ablaze.

x

On Monday night, they head out to The Wayland  to meet Harry’s friends for happy hour drinks and a bite to eat. The sun is just starting to set over Manhattan, the days lengthening slowly as spring settles in. The weather is temperate, cool, but not cold, and despite being in the heart of the city, there’s a freshness to the air with the lingering scent of the very first buds on trees. After such a long, desolate winter, there’s a bounce to Harry’s step that’s unexplainable except for the turn in seasons and Louis’ hand in his own. 

When they step into the bar, it’s busy, but not overly crowded, still fairly early for most Manhattanites to have departed work. By day, The Wayland streams sunlight from the floor to ceiling wood framed windows and the hanging plants and greenery make brunch and mimosas feel more appropriate than evening cocktails. But by night, the lights turn down low and it becomes a casual, intimate setting to meet friends, not at all pretentious like some of the piano or hotel bars Harry’s frequented in his time in Manhattan. 

Chris and Thomas, two of the lawyers Harry works closely with and has become friendly, are already there, along with his friend Leona from yoga who often joins them and has been lusting after Thomas for ages. They’ve all got a beer or glass of wine in their hand, engaged in conversation, but Leona catches his eye first and lights up at his arrival. 

“Harry, babe!” she yells happily, setting her wine glass down on the bartop to fold him into a hug. “It feels like it’s been ages! We missed you at Saturday’s vinyasa. What’s kept you?”

Chris and Thomas both clap him on the shoulder in greeting and Harry smiles, giving Louis’ hand a tug to pull him closer to front and center. Louis, to his credit, is always charming in social situations, strangers and good friends alike, so he smiles and holds a hand out to each of them as Harry introduces him. 

“I’ve had company!” Harry laughs. “This is my boyfriend, Louis. He’s visiting from back home.”

There’s a moment the word just hangs in the air between them.  _ Boyfriend _ . Not one of the three bat an eye in surprise, but Harry can hear,  _ feel _ , the word sizzle between them. It feels a lot like jumping right off a cliff or a diving board, that moment of suspension that lasts hardly a second before hitting the water. Harry’s painfully aware that they’ve never discussed the specifics of their relationship and that despite what he wants, what he feels they are, he just made a huge assumption without consulting Louis. He wants to pull him aside and apologize profusely, promise that it won’t happen again until they’ve talked about it, until they’re ready. 

But then Louis’ face breaks into a wide smile and Harry lets out a breath on a light laugh, relief washing through him. 

“I’ve a nasty habit of sleeping past noon I’ve not grown out of,” Louis admits, pouring on the charisma to make it endearing rather than lazy. “Means I keep this one in bed with me until afternoon.”

Leona raises an eyebrow, her lips turning down. “Shame. It’s such a waste of a Saturday to spend it sleeping. It really sets your intention for the day to get up with the sun and engage in your practice.”

“I work late nights, so I take the sleep when I can get it,” Louis says with a wry chuckle. Harry can’t tell if he’s unphased or put off by Leona’s judgment.

“Drink, love?” Harry cuts in and Louis nods gratefully. He flags down the bartender to order himself an Old Fashioned and gets Louis a vodka Redbull. 

“So! What do you do, Louis? Lawyer as well? I keep telling Harry that two lawyers together are a bad mix,” Chris says, laughing jovially. 

Louis smiles, but it’s tight at the edges. “I’m a bartender, actually.”

“Oh! Maybe we should be ordering our drinks from you tonight then!” Thomas laughs. He’s joking, Harry knows he is, but it still feels like there’s a sharpness to it, like Thomas can’t quite believe that Harry’s settled for a bartender and not a banker or a broker. 

Louis keeps the smile pasted on, friendly to an outsider, but stiff to Harry’s trained eye. “I also teach elementary school. Well, I’m an aid. For the music and theatre department.”

“Can’t imagine that pays well. Surely you make that up in tips?” Chris asks. 

Harry turns immediately as he hands Louis his drink, incredulous that this is where the conversation has turned to. His eyes widen, trying to communicate silently for Chris,  _ all _ of them, to dial it back. “Does it matter? He loves teaching. He’s incredible at it.”

Harry’s never actually witnessed Louis teach, but he knows what a kind, patient soul he is with everyone around him. He’d helped all his siblings with schoolwork, assisted them in thinking critically and expressing themselves creatively. All through high school, he’d been Harry’s study partner. They may have spent more time listening to music and occasionally getting high, but when it came down to it, he set Harry down in front of his textbooks to carry on, always encouraging him in the shadow of a big exam. Harry can’t imagine Louis being anything less than phenomenal at teaching. 

“No, I don’t make a lot. But it’s enough to get by in Sturgeon Bay,” Louis says firmly. “I’m not paying out the nose for rent, so I don’t really need a six figure salary.”

“Oh, you’re from Wisconsin then? Like Harry?” Leona interjects, sipping from her wine glass. “I can’t imagine living somewhere so… bleak. Harry  _ loathes _ Wisconsin. Such a blessing he got out of there, no?”

Louis’ lips part, stunned, and he takes a sip of his drink, clearly stalling. “Yeah, it’s fantastic. He’s done really well here,” he answers, soft, Leona leaning forward to even catch his words. 

“And how’s that working out? Being there and Harry’s here?” Chris presses. “Plans to join us here in the big city?”

Louis opens his mouth to formulate a response, quick now that he’s dealt with a barb from Leona, but Harry gets there first. “We’re still figuring it out,” he says, his eyes blazing. 

Thomas luckily steers the conversation away from them, distracting Chris with vacation plans to Greece and the yacht he’s secured to sail around the Mediterranean. Leona jumps right in, touching Thomas’ arm as she talks all about the retreats she’s done and how rewarding they were. Travel is something Harry can handle so he listens intently, interjecting with a story or two about his trip around Europe, the pasta he ate in Italy and how he never left his sun bathed balcony in the south of France. Louis watches him as he speaks, sipping at his drink in between, but doesn’t contribute otherwise. He’s been nowhere but the city he was born in in Illinois, the dusty town he calls home now, and well, New York can be added to the limited list as well. Harry mouths a  _ sorry _ when he realizes. 

“Yeah, bet the sunshine was why you never left the room,” Chris teases, wiggling his eyebrows pointedly at Harry. “Or was it the lad you picked up?”

Harry blushes a furious red, embarrassed and ashamed when it’s put in such crude terms. He turns immediately to Louis, a victim to the course of the conversation, to explain, to say  _ something _ , but Louis’ already patting down his pockets for his cigarettes. 

“Lou -“ Harry starts. 

He’s gone before Harry can even figure out what to say, parting the crowd with a shoulder as he moves towards the door, a slight shake to his head that Harry might be imagining. 

“Sorry, man. He didn’t know about that?” Chris asks, sipping his beer casually. 

Leona glances at him disapprovingly. “You’re dating a smoker?”

Harry glares and then closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath. Chris is out of line, they’re  _ all _ out of line, but the root of the problem is not their inappropriate teasing and questioning, but how much of their lives in the last ten years is unknown to one another. 

“No. He didn’t. It’s fine,” Harry says quickly. He leans forward to place his drink down on the bar with a enough cash to cover and then turns to go after Louis, hoping he really is just outside and that he hasn’t just abandoned him altogether. 

When he bursts through the doors, it’s with relief that he spots Louis leaning just outside, a foot propped against the wall as he puffs at his cigarette. Harry can tell he’s upset just by the way he’s standing rigid, but he smiles anyway, tight lipped. 

“Hey,” Louis throws his way. 

Harry stuffs his hands into his pockets and shuffles to stand in front of him, awkward. “Hi,” he says back, quiet and barely audible on a busy Manhattan street. “I’m sorry… about all that.”

“‘s alright. Nothing to be sorry for. Just wanted a smoke,” Louis says, ashing the cigarette and staring down at the pavement where it falls. 

“I know you’re upset, Louis. I  _ know _ you. I can see right through you,” Harry sighs. 

Louis shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders as he tosses his cigarette down and scrubs it out with his foot. “I don’t care who you’ve fucked, Harry. I don’t care that you hate our town and never want to see it again for the rest of your life. It’s not a big deal, okay? You obviously had a life before this. Us. Can we just forget about it?” 

Harry opens his mouth to argue, but he closes it and just nods, resigned. He knows anything less than a yield will lead to a full blown fight. “Okay, yeah. Come back inside?”

“I think I wanna head back. Got a headache. But you go ahead, okay? Enjoy your night,” Louis says, his own hands slung in his pockets, mirroring Harry. He can tell by the tilt of Louis’ jaw that he’s being stubborn. 

Harry shakes his head, terrified to let him go. “No, I’ll come with you. It’s a Monday, anyway. They won’t be out long.”

“You sure?” Louis asks, skeptical, though Harry can see the willfulness evaporate and the obvious relief in his demeanor as his shoulders drop. 

Harry holds a hand out for Louis’, loosely linking their fingers when he gives in. “Of course I’m sure. Wanna be with you, baby. Just you.”

Louis can’t help himself. He smiles and squeezes Harry’s fingers in his own, lifting it after to kiss the back of it. “C’mon. Let’s hit that McDonald’s on the way back and get some fries.”

They walk back hand in hand towards Harry’s apartment, more of a stroll than with purpose, not speaking, but not tense either. Harry still wants to apologize, still wants to explain, but he doesn’t know how to begin and he doesn’t want to upset the precarious calm they’ve found again since they left the bar. It makes him realize that although they’ve been moving forward from Christmas, there’s still a decade of unknown that matters to both of them. Harry had thought that age old saying -  _ the past is in the past  _ \- was true, but it’s evident now that they’re both curious and maybe a little jealous of what they don’t know, but assume, as well. 

When they get to McDonald’s, Louis orders them both Big Macs and large fries, and they split a vanilla shake between them. They choose a booth by the windows because Louis’ developed a penchant for people watching and Harry always chooses to sit there. 

“You’re hogging all the shake,” Louis huffs, trying to snatch the cup away from Harry. 

Harry sits back, sucking so hard on the straw that his cheeks hollow both obscenely and comically at the same time. “I haven’t even had any yet! It’s too thick to get up the straw.”

“Then you’re gonna give yourself a hernia sucking so hard,” Louis says. He picks up his burger for another massive bite while he waits for his turn at the shake. 

Harry gives up after a minute, sliding the cup towards Louis in favor of his fries, but narrows his eyes at the smirk that immediately takes over Louis’ face. He takes the cover off and swirls the straw in the shake, licking around it to get every bit off after. 

Harry openly gapes at him, fries halfway to his mouth. “ _ Louis. _ ”

“What?” Louis dips the straw back into the cup, repeating the process with a loud slurp. 

Harry’s eyes narrow further until he’s almost got them closed. “You’re getting all your germs in there.”

“I’ve literally kissed you after rimming you and you’re worried about my spit in your shake?” Louis laughs. He scoops up more of the shake with the straw, holding it out to Harry, and Harry eyes him dubiously before finally leaning forward to lick it, delicate with the tip of his tongue. Harry can see Louis swallow slow and thick, like he’s got mud in his throat, his eyes boring into him across the table. The shake globs off and onto the sleeve of Harry’s jumper. 

“Louis!” Harry yelps, snagging napkins to dab at the mess on his arm. 

Louis rolls his eyes and goes back to slurping at the straw. “Well, I didn’t say sit there and take your time teasing the straw! That’s what happens.”

“I wasn’t  _ teasing _ the straw. God,” Harry says, voice low, but there’s a smile pulling at his mouth anyway. He can’t help himself, watching Louis’ antics as he traps the milkshake in the straw like a stopper to transport it to his mouth. 

All the remaining tension has ebbed away, both of them distracted by their food as they throw fries at one another and, when it melts adequately, pass the shake back and forth in harmony. So in sync that when Harry sets the cup down, Louis’ just swallowed a bite and picks it up immediately for a sip. It’s the tiniest of things that Harry notices, the simplicity of sitting together in a McDonald’s and sharing a milkshake, that makes him crave this relationship he has with Louis like nothing else. He thinks he’d take it in whatever form it came, even if he lived on the moon or Jupiter and Louis remained here, on the surface of the Earth, existing just as he is, for he, in Harry’s eyes, is perfect. 

Harry grins down at his half eaten burger, dimple deep in his cheek with dopiness, and it’s only when the straw wrapper comes flying at his face that he looks up. 

“What?” Harry asks, blinking owlishly. 

Louis tilts his head. “Where’d you go?”

Harry smiles again, hooks his foot around Louis’ ankle beneath the table. “Nowhere, babe. I’m right here. With you. Always.”

x

It rains on Tuesday, chucking it down in sheets that turns anyone caught outside longer than a minute or two downright miserable and rude. They zip up their raincoats and avoid puddles on their way to the subway, but by the time they make it into the station, they’re both damp and cold and have already been snapped at by several passersby for one reason or another. Louis huffs when he slumps into a seat, trying to rearrange his fringe plastered to his forehead so it’ll dry.

“I promise it’ll be worth it,” Harry tries as he shakes the raindrops from his sleeves. Louis looks like he’d enjoy nothing more than a hot shower and a snooze in bed, so Harry attempts to dazzle him with a reassuring smile. “You’ll love it! I know you will.”

“Isn’t it just a bunch of fish?” Louis asks, an eyebrow raised.

Harry looks affronted. “ _ No _ . It’s so much more than just fish! There’s otters and sea lions and sharks and things. Haven’t you ever been to an aquarium?”

“Have you ever seen an aquarium in Sturgeon Bay?” Louis drawls, facetious, his eyes on the verge of rolling.

Harry frowns. “I thought maybe in Milwaukee or Chicago.”

“Nope,” Louis answers, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “My class went on a field trip to the one in Milwaukee last summer, but I had to work a shift.”

Harry lets himself fall into silence, but his chest aches in that particular way it does whenever he allows himself to think too long and too hard about Louis stuck behind in Sturgeon Bay all these years. What he hasn’t seen, what he hasn’t done, what he’s missed. While Harry traveled and backpacked his way through Europe, made friends at a university far from home, ate cuisine and consumed art and culture from around the globe in the heart of New York City, Louis was stuck inside the crushing walls of their tiny hometown, limited to the population around him and a few pubs. Experiencing the world, so vast and endless to what it holds, is part of being human, in Harry’s opinion, and he wants nothing more than to give it all to Louis, right in the palm of his hand. Even if it means starting at an aquarium in Brooklyn. 

Louis sits up a little straighter and looks over at Harry. “I know what you’re thinking and I want you to stop it. Nothing to pout over just ‘cause I’ve never been to an aquarium.”

“I’m not pouting!” Harry protests, but he can feel his whole face relax from the look of despair he’d just been wearing.

When they arrive, the line for tickets is long, but they manage to snag the last two spots just inside the doors. Harry gives a sympathetic look to the couple that’s standing out in the pouring rain and nearly offers to switch with them, but then the line moves and they’re inside shortly. The warmth inside, although welcoming, starts to make them feel a bit like they’re being steamed, still dewy beneath their rain jackets. They both shed their coats and check them after they make it to the ticketing booth, Louis reaching for a map as Harry pays.

“We’re not far off the schedule for when they feed the sea lions,” Louis tells him, pointing to the timetable inside. 

Harry bites the inside of his cheek to suppress his grin. Louis can put on a tough, indifferent front all he’d like, but Harry knows he’s not immune to the excitement that comes with just  _ being _ there, pure wonder drawing both children and adults alike.

“Let’s start there then? I think they’re with the otters and penguins too,” Harry says, heading in that direction after a quick glance at the map over Louis’ shoulder.

The main show for the day is canceled with the outside deck closed due to the weather, but there’s still a good crowd gathered around the indoor pool to observe the feeding. A couple of handlers have come out with buckets of fish and both Harry and Louis make a face, wrinkling their noses at the slimy sludge inside and realizing where the fishy smelly is coming from. The sea lions, however, feel quite the opposite, the glass surrounding them echoing off great honking noises as they slump and wobble their massive bodies towards the fish.

“Amazing they can even move like that,” Louis muses, leaning on the railing as one of the keepers begins to speak, and Harry chuckles his agreement.

“A lot of people think sea lions are the same as seals, but they’re actually different in a few ways. Sea lions have external ear flaps,” she says as she holds a piece of fish up over one of the sea lion’s snouts, gesturing to the tiny ears poking from the animal’s head. “They also use all four of their flippers to move as opposed to bouncing on their bellies like seals. And there’s a fundamental difference in how they swim; sea lions swim with their front flippers, while seals use their hind flippers.”

Louis’ attention never wavers from the keepers as they finish off the bucket of fish and start on the next. The sea lions get a bit competitive and boisterous, braying like donkeys and attempting their best tricks to earn an extra fish or two off their handler. The keepers explain a little bit about each of the particular sea lions, how they came to the aquarium as rescues and their individual personalities. Like  _ Chicago _ , Harry finds his own eyes glued to Louis more than the animals in front of him, his chest easing with happiness that Louis’ interested, that Harry gets to experience this with him for the first time.

After the sea lions, they make their way back to the broader exhibit, peering down from above at the sea otters floating along serenely on their backs. Despite being in captivity, they appear to be well looked after and content, a couple zooming through the water with speed that doesn’t seem possible judging by the ones lazily drifting on the surface. 

The penguins, just beyond the otters in their own exhibit, steal Harry’s attention as they zip and dive from the rocks, shaking water off their feathers to dry and then plunging straight back in. There’s more penguins than most other species at the aquarium and they’ve split into little colonies, gathered in different places on the rocks that make up their exhibit.

“You know what otters and penguins have in common?” Harry asks, grinning so widely that he immediately looks up to no good.

Louis looks doubtful of his intention immediately. “Is this about to be a terrible joke?”

“ _ No _ ,” Harry says, crossing his arms. “They mate for life.”

“Oh, so it’s just cheesy then,” Louis answers, but he’s smiling, a bit too widely and giving himself away.

Harry reaches for his hand and links their fingers together. “You’re my -“

“Don’t even say it,” Louis interrupts, just as Harry raises his voice to finish, “Penguin.”

Louis groans, his head falling back on his shoulders. “Don’t ever say that again,” he tells him, but his eyes, bright, say otherwise.

They have lunch at one of the restaurants inside the aquarium that looks out towards Coney Island, obscured by the rain and fog and appearing more ghostly than cheerful. Harry orders a lobster roll while Louis goes for the fish and chips, but they both regret their orders almost immediately and end up sharing. There’s a few families surrounding them, but it’s reasonably quiet and Harry’s glad they haven’t gotten caught amidst a field trip. Harry rattles off facts about sea life that he looks up on his phone as they eat, Louis humming when something catches his interest. 

After lunch, they wander to the jellyfish tanks and the touch pools. Harry gets a thrill out of seeing Louis roll up his sleeve and skate his hand across the back of one of the stingrays swimming past. 

“They feel like actual jelly,” Louis comments, nose scrunching just as it had at the sight of the bucket of fish.

One of the staff behind the touch pool smiles at them. “They’re covered in a layer of mucous. It’s like a protective layer. Keeps them safe from disease and wounds.”

Louis rips his hand out of the water so fast that he splashes both himself and Harry, inspecting his hand for any sign of residue. Beside him, Harry’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. When he catches his breath, it’s in a full on cackle.

“Your  _ face _ ,” he wheezes.

Louis glares at him and reaches, wiping his hand down the front of Harry’s jumper. “See how you like the fucking  _ mucous _ .”

Harry yelps, looking down at himself and the wet spots of both water and whatever Louis’ just wiped on him. “ _ Louis _ . I love this sweater!”

“Smells like low tide now!” Louis calls over his shoulder, already stalking off.

They roam past the jellyfish tanks on their way to the coral reef that sits in the main tank of the aquarium. Harry gawks at the drifting jellies, mesmerized by their slow dance in the neon illuminated tanks, but Louis walks right past towards the tunnel. Surely he’s in a hurry to see the sharks, Harry thinks, though there’s a layer of worry that coats his stomach at his peculiar behavior as he follows.

The reef tunnel is Harry’s favorite part of the aquarium. It stretches all around them and overhead, leaving them smack dab in the middle of an entire marine ecosystem. No matter how many times he’s been to the New York Aquarium, it still casts a spell on him that makes him feel like a child again, head tilted back and eyes wide open, hardly blinking for fear of missing something. They stand side by side, cast in the blue glow of the tank, and when Harry looks over, Louis’ own childlike amazement is reflected in his eyes, matching the color of the water embracing them.

“Think that’s a zebra shark there,” Harry whispers, pointing at one of the animals coasting by.

Louis makes a small sound of acknowledgement, barely glancing at Harry. He seems lost in thought, his eyes unfocused as if staring at one spot, unwavering, but not really seeing it. 

Harry frowns, but tries again. “Parrot fish,” he whispers, trailing his fingers over the glass as the bright little fish swims past in a flourish. This time, Louis doesn’t say anything. 

“Lou,” Harry says tenderly, leaning his shoulder into his. “Louis. What’s wrong?”

That gets Louis’ attention. He glances over at Harry, startled out of his reverie, and shakes his head. “Nothing, H.”

“Is this because I laughed at you? I was only joking. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I laughed at you,” Harry says hurriedly, the frown growing deeper on his lips and a worry line appearing between his brows. It seems odd, out of character, for Louis to offend so easily.

“No, it’s not because you laughed, babe. Don’t worry,” Louis sighs, reaching to squeeze a hand over Harry’s hip in reassurance. 

Harry takes his elbow gently, squeezing. “But it is something.”

“It’s nothing,” Louis insists, pulling his arm away and attempting to shake Harry off.

Harry hangs on, firm, but not so tight to be restraining. “Louis. What’s going on?”

Louis sighs again, but it’s much more profound. When he turns his eyes back on Harry, they look sad, doleful. “What are we doing?”

“What… what do you mean? We’re at the aquarium,” Harry says, his head shaking minutely with confusion. 

Louis tilts his head back with a heavy inhale and then rights himself. “No, I mean…  _ us _ . What are we doing?”

“We’re together, aren’t we? Oh…” Harry says, realization dawning. “It’s because I introduced you as my boyfriend, isn’t it? Louis, we can talk about that. I’m sorry, I didn’t -”

Louis shakes his head. “No, that’s not… No. I just…” he trails off, struggling to communicate. Harry’s eyebrows furrow deeper, his bewilderment palpable. “I mean… yeah, we’re together. But do we really think this is gonna work? Are we just fucking fooling ourselves until this implodes on us?”

Harry’s lips part with a shallow intake of breath. He can feel his throat tighten, squeezing around his windpipe, cruelly dashing any hope of speaking. It’s a fair question, if he truly considers it, knowing the same thought has hovered in the back of his mind once or twice. But there’s no denying the sting he feels, a lash across the face, to hear Louis say it aloud.

“No.  _ No _ ,” Harry says, whisper yelling under the tank. “It’s gonna work because we’re  _ making _ it work. Louis, don’t you see? We’re already doing it. We’ve  _ been _ doing it.”

Louis chuckles, but it’s all wrong, without humor and almost cold as he looks away and refocuses on the same piece of coral his eyes had been trained on moments ago. “Yeah, but what’s gonna happen a month from now? Two months? Six -”

“You’re gonna move here. At least I hope you are,” Harry says, cutting him off. Even as he does, he hears how selfish those words are when they’re laid out between them. Their whole relationship depends on Louis moving, changing his life, giving up his home and family, for Harry.

“And what if I don’t?” Louis asks, his hands flying from his pockets to slap in defeat against his thighs. “Or what if I do and I don’t  _ fit _ here, Harry? I can already see that I don’t. I don’t wake up with the fucking sun to do yoga or drink green juice or have loads of fucking cash. I’ve never been anywhere out of the United States. Fuck, I haven’t even been out of Wisconsin ‘til now.”

“Louis -” Harry interjects, already at a loss for words before Louis continues.

“You have a whole life here and I’m not part of it. I don’t  _ fit _ in it,” Louis says, his voice breaking with emotion that Harry hears him holding back, pained. “I can’t afford to live in New York. I don’t know shit about art and I don’t own a yacht and your friends could see right through me. The only way I’ll ever get on with them is just like your buddy said. As your fucking bartender.”

“Louis, stop! I don’t care. About any of that. You know that I don’t,” Harry begs, shaking his head so hard his hair flops into his eyes. “I just want to be with you, Lou. I’ve always just wanted to be with you.”

Louis closes his eyes and lets his breath out in a long, crushing exhale. “Sometimes that’s not enough, H. Sometimes it doesn’t work no matter how much we want it.”

Harry stares down at his pigeon toes, turned in on themselves, and stays quiet, still, his mind going a thousand miles an hour on a hundred different thoughts while being drowned by the white noise rushing in his ears. When he looks up at Louis, green eyes cast blue with the surrounding tank, they’re swimming with uncertainty and hurt.

“Are you breaking up with me?” he whispers.

Louis looks away, rolls his lips into his mouth and bites down on them with his teeth. “I don’t know,” he answers. 

Coward, Harry thinks, his heart in shambles. He can feel his anger poised just under his skin, but the anguish overshadows it and his shoulders slump. 

“Let’s just go home then,” he says instead. 

Louis stares at him for a moment, lips parted as if to speak before he nods, resigned, and looks down at his feet. He leads the way through the tunnel, Harry a few paces behind him, feeling far more distant from him now than he does when they’re truly apart. He doesn’t feel like a couple or a friend or even an acquaintance when he’s trailing behind Louis like any other ordinary stranger. For some reason, when Louis crumples the pamphlet and tosses it towards the trash bin, Harry’s stomach turns and he has to tilt his head back, swallow a few times, to keep the overwhelming urge to cry at bay. 

The subway ride home is silent save for a few teenagers roughhousing further down the car. They don’t touch, aside from their shoulders bumping when the train rattles over the tracks, and Harry keeps his head down, eyes trained on his hands folded in his lap. He wonders if anyone can see the tension, the upset, radiating off them in waves or if Harry’s just hyper aware of how much they’re not touching, how much they’re not speaking. 

When they get home, the door snapping closed behind them in the silence, Harry places all his attention on carefully toeing off his Chelsea boots. There’s a strange, dissociative feeling to it, as though his feet and legs don’t belong to himself. He sets his raincoat on the rack to dry, all of his movements measured and mechanical. His whole body is so tight with stress that he can feel an aching knot forming between his shoulders and worming its way up his neck. 

“Harry…” Louis whispers. With the way Harry flinches, he might as well have been yelling. 

Louis reaches out to touch him, but he pauses and lets his hand hover in the air near Harry’s shoulder. Eventually, he settles it gently on him, the warmth from his palm sending waves of heat down his arm and spine. All the fight, all the hurt, goes out of Harry, and he sags, leaning back until Louis wraps both arms around his waist. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis murmurs between his shoulder blades, lips catching on his jumper. 

Harry nods his head, the curls at the base of his skull brushing against Louis’ forehead. “I just wanna love you, Lou. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.” 

Harry shifts in Louis’ arms, turns his eyes on him that are brilliant green with pain and shining with tears. “Please let me love you,” he whispers. 

Louis swallows and finally looks up at him, his own eyes full of affliction. It only takes him a fraction of a second staring back into Harry’s own sad eyes before he’s lifting to his toes and crashing their mouths together. 

And Harry knows they shouldn’t fix this with sex, should talk about it when they’ve both calmed down, but on the verge of losing Louis, it feels like a way to reel him back in. He grips him by the waist and opens his mouth under his, Louis’ tongue tracing the roof of his mouth and sliding hotly against his own. He moans, unabashed, against Louis’ lips as his hand grasps his hair and pulls it just on the side of painful like Harry likes. 

“Want you,” Harry breathes. He’s not sure if he means here in this moment or if he’s echoing his earlier sentiment, that he wants Louis now, tomorrow, always, until he ceases to exist. 

Louis nods and pulls away to start towards the bedroom, but Harry shakes his head. Instead, he walks backwards until his knees hit the edge of the sofa, his hands fisted in Louis’ jumper to tug him along, and collapses back, taking him down with him. Louis’ thigh lands between his legs and Harry rolls his hips down on instinct, chasing friction, before he can even think about what he’s doing. 

Their hands are a flurry of movement, yanking at sweaters and t-shirts until they’re in a tangled pile on the floor and they’re both naked from the waist up, panting and flushed. Harry arches off the couch towards Louis’ mouth as he sucks and kisses his way across Harry’s collarbone. 

“Love you. Love every inch of you,” Louis whispers into his skin, his voice heavy with emotion. 

Harry closes his eyes and tries to ignore the uncertainty that lingers, unsure if they’re mending fresh wounds or opening them wider, closing a chapter with one final go. If it’s the last time, then Harry wants to enjoy it. If it’s the last time, he wants to make it something Louis won’t forget, will look back on and crave Harry’s skin, crave his smile and his gentle words, and know that he could have had him. All of him, in totality. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis mumbles again, lips catching on Harry’s skin between either pec. “I’m sorry.”

Harry slides his fingers through Louis’ soft hair and pulls him up until he can kiss him again, hands slipping to rest on his jaw. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he soothes even as his heart is screaming with confusion. 

It’s enough for Louis, it seems, his hands falling to the waistline of Harry’s jeans to ease the button and fly open. He doesn’t get much further than that, Harry placing a firm hand on his chest to push him back. Harry kicks off his jeans and pushes his boxer briefs down with them, Louis assisting when they knot around his ankles. He rolls over after, grinding his half hard cock into the couch cushion as he serves himself up on a silver platter for Louis’ taking.

And Louis does. He finds the lube in the coffee table drawer, leftover from Facetime conversations of the past, and takes Harry apart with his fingers. By the  time he’s got three inside him, Harry’s biting down on his forearm and doing his best not to writhe his way right over the arm of the couch and onto the floor. He concentrates instead on fucking himself back on Louis’ fingers, his vision blurry as his eyes go half lidded and his cheek rubs red against the upholstery, face turned to the side. 

“Fuck me. Louis, fuck me,” Harry pants, voice rough and raw when he manages between low groans that get lost in the sofa.

Louis nods, his voice cracking with arousal. “Yeah. Lemme find a condom.”

“No. Fuck, it’s fine.  _ Now _ . Fuck me now,” Harry tells him, more an order than a suggestion. 

“Harry…” Louis trails. He pulls his fingers from inside him, hurrying to get his own jeans off to meet Harry’s on the floor. 

Harry nearly whines with the loss, hollow inside, and rolls back over, shoving Louis backwards to the opposite end of the couch. Louis blinks up at him with surprise, sprawled naked beneath him, his eyes blown wide and so blue, reminiscent of the tank they were surrounded by just an hour or two ago. Harry’s always happy to hand the reins to Louis, take whatever he gives him and ask for more, but with cracks spidering up the glass of what they’ve so fragilely built, Harry’s desperate for control. If all he can command is the pace of their bodies and his ragged breathing, then he wants it, will hold on tight to it, as if he can save them by holding them together in this moment. 

Harry throws a leg over Louis’ hips and places a hand on the back of the couch for support as he lowers himself down on his cock. He moves too fast, too much too soon, but the burn and the hot, thick heat of Louis inside him grounds him, brings him back to his body. 

“ _ Christ _ , Harry,” Louis grits out between his teeth, his hands flying to Harry’s hips to clutch tightly, knuckles turning white. 

Harry’s opposite hand lands in the center of Louis’ chest and he wastes no time moving, rocking himself up on his knees and dropping his ass back down to grind in a rough circle. His head falls back on his shoulders, Louis so deep he can feel him in his belly, but he forces his gaze back up. He manages a glimpse of Louis, his own head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, face scrunched in what would be a grimace if Harry didn’t know he’s utterly lost in pleasure. 

“Yeah? Like that?” Harry asks him as he bounces himself fast on Louis’ cock. His thighs ache with the effort, but he’s relentless until Louis’ cockhead nudges his prostate. Harry clenches around him, stuttering his words through a loud cry. “Tell me.”

“Good, fuck, so good, baby,” Louis spits. He manages to open his eyes, staring up at Harry, mouth slack. His hands ease up on Harry’s hips as if he’s only just realized the divots he’s made in his skin with his fingertips. “Look so good like this. Just like this. On my cock. Right where you belong.”

Harry wants to fuck him dirty, wants to blow his mind clear off Earth, out of this universe, and feel nothing, but the words twist his heart. All his carefully maintained control and determination melt, his pace slowing to allow himself to feel everything instead. To feel scared, to feel rejected, to feel vulnerable, confused, hurt, more in love than he’s ever been in his entire life. 

“Then keep me. Keep me. Please,” Harry begs. His hand moves from the center of Louis’ chest to settle over his heart, rabbiting fiercely against his palm. 

Louis lifts a hand to place over Harry’s on his chest, picking it up to kiss his palm. “Mine. You’re mine, baby.”

“Let me be yours. Just wanna be yours,” Harry moans. When Louis lets go of his hand, Harry drops it to his cock, jerking himself loosely with the lazy rhythm of his hips. 

Louis’ hand closes over Harry’s, both their fingers intertwined over his cock. Harry can tell by the twitch in his fingers and the jump in his thighs that he’s close, holding back for Harry’s benefit. Harry picks up the pace, rising and falling with purpose, but it’s only when Louis plants his feet and bucks up, meeting every bounce of his ass head on and nailing his prostate, that Harry feels his orgasm come tearing. 

“Fuck! Lou, gonna -  _ oh god! _ ” Harry cries, his back arching dramatically, caught between grinding down on Louis’ cock and thrusting into their fists. He comes over their fingers and up Louis’ stomach, mixing with their combined sweat. 

Louis lets go when Harry slows entirely, riding out his orgasm with minute thrusts of his hips. “Can’t wait to come inside you, babe. Fuck, you wanted that, didn’t you?” he asks him, words tumbling out in a hurry.

Harry can do nothing more than nod his head rapidly, dazed and barely holding himself up as Louis fucks into him, pelvis clapping against his ass with every thrust and a death grip on his hips again. The moment Louis comes inside him, buried so deep that Harry swears he’s touching his heart, he knows that he could never let him go, that he never  _ will _ let him go. He feels vulnerable in a blanket of intimacy he’s never shared with anyone, his soul laid bare and naked for Louis and Louis only. That, Harry thinks, is worth fighting for. 

He shifts off Louis after, wrecked and messy, and rolls to the side, laying in the tiny space between his ribs and the back of the sofa. He sprawls half on top of him with his head on Louis’ chest, gesturing sluggishly for his t-shirt so he can wipe them  off. Louis hands it over, but it hardly does the job. Harry decides he doesn’t care, yanking the blanket off the back of the couch and resigning himself to loads of laundry after Louis departs. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply as Louis lifts a wandering hand, scratching through Harry’s sweaty curls. 

“I didn’t mean it,” Louis whispers, turning his head heavily to look down at Harry. “When I said I didn’t know if I was breaking up with you. I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t. I don’t want to.”

Harry swallows, averts his eyes as he collects his scattered thoughts and lets the vise around his heart ease. “I want you to be happy, Louis. I just want you to be happy with  _ me _ .”

“I am happy with you, love. It’s just… the other night. It’s hard to see… where I’d fit in here. Into your life,” Louis says, his eyes trained on the bay windows. He continues before Harry can pipe up. “I know I fit when it’s just you and me, but your life is more than just this apartment, babe.”

“I know it’s different here. And I know I’m asking a lot of you. So much. I want you to live here, but I’ll do whatever it takes for us to make this work,” Harry murmurs. “I thought I made that clear before.” He turns his face down to press a kiss to Louis’ chest, nuzzling into his skin. “Even if it means going back to Wisconsin now and again,” he adds, joking. 

Louis smiles, breathes a soft laugh. “Not gonna lie, it’s been alright getting out of there every month or so.”

Harry tilts his face up and rests his chin on Louis’ chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis answers, carding a hand through Harry’s sweaty hair to push it off his forehead. He’s quiet for a while, just scratching and tugging at Harry’s hair, nearly putting him to sleep. But then Louis speaks again, soft. “There’s so much about your life I still don’t know.”

“Like what?” Harry whispers, though it comes out more like a hum. 

Louis shifts his shoulders in a barely there shrug. “You have an ex?”

Harry shakes his head. “Not an ex. No exes.”

“What do you mean? Surely you’ve dated,” Louis says, a bit incredulous.

Harry glances up at him again. “Sure, but never seriously. No relationships. I never… it just never felt right,” he settles on.

“Can I ask about the fellow your friend mentioned?” Louis asks, turning his head back towards Harry. 

“You can,” Harry agrees. “His name is James. I met him in Italy. In Rome. He was from San Francisco and also traveling on his own. Dunno, I’m not really sure what his plan was or why he was traveling. We didn’t talk much, you know. Because -“

“Alright, yeah. Spare me the details,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. 

Harry laughs. “He had blue eyes and I was lonely. But in the end, I just… couldn’t make myself fall in love, you know? We traveled all over Europe together that summer, but I still… missed you, I guess. Some part of me still missed you and knew that he wasn’t you. No hard feelings anyway, though. I flew home at the end of the summer and started law school.”

Louis makes a noise of acknowledgement, thinking it over. “Do you still talk?”

“No, but we follow one another on Instagram. Last I saw, he was in Australia,” Harry tells him. “We like each other’s photos sometimes.”

“Gonna make me jealous,” Louis jokes, pressing his nose down against the top of Harry’s head. 

Harry laughs and turns his face into Louis’ chest, his every breath gently rocking his head. He feels lighter compared to just an hour ago, less like they’re standing a mile apart on a precipice, ready to jump into the void, and more like they’re walking away, leaving it behind, hand in hand. It might never be perfect, Harry knows, but he feels reassured, believes they’ll be alright as long as they’re willing to fight tooth and nail, fight for their place in one another’s lives. 

“You’ve got not a thing to worry about, Lou,” Harry promises. 

When he offers up his pinky, Louis takes it with his own and seals it with a promise. 

x

As it turns out, what they say about April showers reveals itself to be true. It rains for days on end followed by bouts of sunshine and mild temperatures, everything dewy and damp and a little more green as spring pushes the last of winter out of New York City. These long stretches of time apart are always difficult, but the change in weather certainly improves upon Harry’s mood, even if Louis is lagging behind, the midwest still in the hold of winter with one last storm that drops a half foot over Sturgeon Bay. When Louis complains about it, complains about the sudden freeze, Harry tries not to brag about the warmth they’ve been treated with in New York.

Unlike February, life calms down for both of them. Harry’s hours finally find a balance, enough so that he’s out of the office at a reasonable time each evening, and Louis’ co-worker manages to pull through the plague and return to work. Their nights find the routine they’d maintained in January - having dinner and a drink over Facetime together, bringing one another off with heated, whispered words, and sharing stories from their days until the clock ticks close to midnight. It’s not the standard relationship Harry envisioned for himself, but it’s Louis and that’s all that matters to him when he climbs into bed at night and wraps his arms around a cool pillow instead of a warm body.

Tonight, Harry’s made himself a piece of roast chicken over creamy lemon pasta. Louis had moaned the entire time he’d eaten, whinging on about his lame frozen pizza and how much he misses Harry’s cooking and the ease of ordering whatever he wants at any hour in New York. Harry hums with piqued interest as he slides his plate onto the coffee table in front of him.

“Know an easy fix for that,” Harry says, reaching for his phone that he’s propped against a stack of books. He settles back into the arm of the sofa and props his phone against his knees.

Louis gives him a pointed look. “ _ Easy _ .”

“You know what I mean,” Harry huffs, trying to keep the edge from his voice. When he misses Louis, misses him like a piece of his heart is dying and turning black without him, he has to remind himself to live by his word and keep his frustrations at bay. This is enough, they can make this work, he tells himself. Seeing Louis a weekend out of every other month is better than not having him at all.

“I do know what you mean,” Louis says. He goes out of focus a moment before he reappears, righted. “And I have been thinking more seriously about it. I just… all my other concerns aside, it’s a tough move. Like, you know. Financially.”

Harry frowns, but before he can say anything, Louis continues. “I can’t afford an apartment there, H. And everything is so much more expensive. Literally,  _ everything _ .”

“But, Louis... I would never let you move here and rent a place on your own. My apartment is plenty big for both of us and I…” he trails off, realizing. “I guess I just assumed you’d want to live with me.”

“And I do, babe. I promise. But we’ve only been together a few months and in any other circumstance, that’d be kinda fast, you know what I mean?” Louis reasons, shrugging his shoulders. “Besides, I probably can’t even afford half of your mortgage anyway.”

“I wouldn’t make you pay the mortgage!” Harry scoffs immediately. 

Louis’ eyes narrow just as fast. “Harry, I’m not going to move to New York and live scott free. I don’t care how much money you make, I’m not -“

Harry cuts him off. “But I can. Support us. And it doesn’t have to be forever. Just until you get on your feet.”

“Harry, no,” Louis sighs, shaking his head while he pinches at the bridge of his nose, his tone turning clipped and short. “I don’t want you to do that. I could never ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking, baby,” Harry says gently. “I’m offering.”

Louis shakes his head again, blowing out a frustrated breath through his lips. “You’re not listening to me.  _ I  _ don’t  _ want  _ you to do that. I don’t want your money or your help. If I’m gonna do this, I’m gonna do it on my own. It’s important to me.”

“You’re so goddamn prideful,” Harry mumbles under his breath. 

Louis nearly recoils in frame. “Why can’t you understand where I’m coming from? Is it so hard to fathom that I’m not gagging to move to New York on your dime? That’d be a good look to all your friends.”

“Is that what this is about again? What my friends said?” Harry asks, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. 

Louis drops his head back until it thumps against the headboard of his bed. “ _ No _ . Well, kind of. You saw how they looked at me, H. I know what they thought of me and what they’d think.”

“They didn’t think any-“ Harry starts, but Louis cuts him off. 

“Oh, c’mon, Harry! Wake up! One of them literally insinuated I should’ve been serving drinks to you all instead of socializing!” Louis yells in exasperation. 

Harry shakes his head desperately. “That’s not how he meant it! It just came out wrong!”

Louis gives him a look and as much as Harry wants to keep arguing, he knows Louis is right. Chris’ comment had been disguised with laughter, but the barb was still sharp beneath and Louis had felt it. Harry had been so distracted by keeping the peace among all of them that he hadn’t seen it for what it was. There’s still a piece of him that wants to give his friends the benefit of the doubt, that living at their status and luxury has blinded them. 

“I… fuck,” Harry sighs heavily, his head hanging between his shoulders. He looks up after, expression earnest. “I’m so sorry, Louis. I didn’t realize. Shit.”

Louis’ shoulders drop as all the fight leaves him at once. “It’s alright. That night was kind of a shit show, so. A lot was going on.”

“I should’ve said something. Done something. Told them all off,” Harry says, forlorn and regretful. 

Louis shakes his head and looks out of the frame, away. “It’s fine. It’s not like I care what anyone thinks of me,” he says. “That’s not really what this is about. I want to do this on my own because I’ve never had that opportunity, H. You got to move and go to college and be on your own. Fend for yourself. I haven’t had that chance. I want to be able to move to New York and say I did it on my own. So yeah, maybe I am a little prideful, but fuck. Just let me have this.”

Harry listens to him, hears him out, and though he knows Louis’ way is the long trek around the mountain versus the shortcut, Harry gives it to him and nods in the end. “Alright.”

“I promise you. When I feel like I can do it, be an equal and bring something to the table for us, I’ll be on the next flight there,” Louis says, voice soft and kind, his eyes sad as he looks straight through the camera at Harry’s image. “You know there isn’t anywhere I’d rather be than with you, baby.

“I know,” Harry tells him. “Just miss you.”

Louis smiles, encouraging one out of Harry as well. “Miss you loads, gorgeous.”

“And I still think you and all your mess would fit just fine here,” Harry adds. 

Louis huffs. “My mess?!”

“Yes! You haven’t been here in a month and I’m still finding random shit that’s yours all over!” Harry leans over the edge of the sofa to the random Adidas sock he’d come across the other day. He’d left it right where he found it, so hopelessly longing for Louis’ presence that he couldn’t bear toss it out. He lifts it for Louis to see, raising an eyebrow. 

“Oi! I was looking for that!” Louis laughs, scrambling from his bed. He returns to the frame with the matching sock, holding it up much the same as Harry is. “Socks go missing all the time. This doesn’t prove I’m a mess,” he defends. 

“There’s plenty of other proof,” Harry tells him, amused. 

Louis chuckles, tossing his own sock somewhere in his room, accidentally proving Harry’s point. “These lies.” 

Harry can do nothing else but laugh and shake his head fondly, their spat forgotten. If he tucks Louis’ sock back to where he found it just to feel him near, no one needs to know about it. 

x

Louis visits a few weeks later as April fades to May, but it’s just for a weekend, squeezed between a business trip to LA for Harry and the last few weeks of school for Louis’ class. His flight had gotten in late the evening before and though Harry had tried to keep his eyes open long enough to spend a few hours together, a round of lazy blowjobs had sent him straight into a post orgasmic sleep that left him snoring through the morning. In fact, as Harry rolls over, the first thing he notices is the time creeping towards noon, unable to remember the last he’d slept so late. The second thing he notices is that Louis’ side of the bed is empty, his phone gone off the charger and his suitcase already thrown open, belongings strewn in general disarray.

Harry lifts his head and glances around the bedroom, eyes still lidded sleepily and bedhead rampant. He listens for any sign of life in the apartment, but when all he can hear is the central air clicking on, he frowns and reaches for his phone.

_ Harry (11:56AM): Did you already fly back to SB? _

It’s a joke, but there’s no immediate answer. Harry sits up in bed, dumbfounded, and scrolls Instagram for a while, awake, but not really seeing anything that passes on his screen. Ironically, a photo of James pops up, sitting on top of a cliff somewhere in the Rockies. Harry stares at him for a moment and, so far removed from that part of his life, can’t see the resemblance he’d found in him to Louis. James’ hair is much lighter than Louis’ and his eyes lean more grey than the bright sea blue he knows by heart. It seems ludicrous now that he ever searched for Louis in anyone else, thought that anyone could ever come close to replacing him. Looking back, he realizes with startling clarity how unfair it was for him to put that expectation on James, unbeknownst to him. Fling or not, they were doomed from the start.

When he hears the front door open and slam shut again, someone cursing loudly in the living room, Harry gets up to throw on a pair of joggers (they’re Louis’ judging by where the ankles fall) and wander out of the bedroom. 

“Lou?” he calls, tilting his head around the corner.

Louis looks up, balancing a tray of hot drinks in his hand and a bag of some sort of takeaway. “Shit. Sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to slam the door and wake you.”

“No, it’s alright. You didn’t,” Harry says, smiling as he gestures to one of the coffees. “That for me?”

“Yeah. Think I got it right. Triple shot latte, extra foam, no syrup. Yeah?” Louis asks, looking so hopeful that Harry would say yes even if he had gotten it wrong.

Harry nods enthusiastically. “That’s the one! Thank you, baby. What’s in the bag? Let me help,” he says, reaching to help clear Louis’ hands so he can at least get his sneakers off.

“Just bagels. There’s a couple croissants in there too. Just looked really good,” Louis says. He kicks his sneakers off and then follows Harry back to the kitchen.

Harry sips his latte with a satisfied hum, warming him from the inside out and through his palms. When he turns the cup in his hands, he notices the label,  _ Fiat Cafe _ , a quaint little place on the skirts of Soho. 

“Surprised you went this far on your own,” he says, eyebrows raised.

“Just woke up early. Decided to have a walk around,” Louis tells him with nonchalance, unpacking the bagels and sliding one towards Harry, already toasted and spread with cream cheese.

Harry eyes him before he turns to his bagel, feigning the same casual tone. “Did alright then? Didn’t get lost?”

“Used my phone a bit on the way there, but no. It was quite nice, actually. Got back all on my own. Pretty easy once you understand how the city’s set up, I suppose,” Louis says, mouth half full of bagel.

Harry really tries to suppress the smile that’s taking over his face, but he fails immediately, grinning dumbly at his bagel instead. 

Louis narrows his eyes at him and lowers his coffee that had been halfway to his mouth. “ _ What _ ?”

“Nothing!” Harry insists, but when Louis keeps his critical gaze on him, he folds. “It’s just nice. That you felt comfortable doing that when you don’t know the city that well. And that you liked it.”

“I just went for a walk, Harold. I’m sure that’s pretty normal here,” Louis says, rolling his eyes as he turns back to his bagel.

Harry shrugs. “You haven’t done it before, though. We always go together.”

“Well, if I’m going to live here someday, I need to be able to go out on my own, no?” Louis reasons, the corners of his lips turning up at the mere insinuation. 

Louis knows how Harry will react to the mention of moving and it’s exactly what he gets, Harry’s dimple etched into his cheek. 

“You’re right. It’s important to get a proper feel for it. All on your own,” Harry agrees. 

Louis shifts his stool closer until their knees bump, so Harry closes the rest of the distance to sit hip to hip, leaning into him. 

“Cold?” Louis asks. “It’s killing me that you’ve got my joggers on and nothing else.”

“Wanted all your attention,” Harry jokes, finishing the rest of his bagel and licking cream cheese from his thumb. If it’s seductive in nature, it’s entirely on accident. 

Louis chuckles, eyes tracking the motion. “If you think my attention has been on anyone or anything else for months, you’re so, so wrong,” he says. He leans close to kiss a smudge of cream cheese from the corner of Harry’s mouth.

“Likewise,” Harry admits, almost a whisper that catches on Louis’ lips when he turns his head. “Almost getting me fired,” he adds, teasing.

Louis laughs right against Harry’s lips, teeth catching on his bottom one to tug, playful. “I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not at all.”

“Don’t want you to be,” Harry answers him, hooking an arm around his neck to reel him in. 

Harry turns to face Louis completely as a couple playful kisses turn to lingering swipes of lips and tongue, coffees forgotten and cooling on the countertop. A breeze rolls in from the kitchen windows that licks at Harry’s bare shoulders, at his waist where Louis’ hands fall, promising an early summer. It tousles Louis’ hair when he pulls back, laughing breathlessly, not a worry or care antagonizing either of them. Sunshine, pooling in the kitchen, catches the profile of Louis’ face and turns his eyes the color of blue sea glass. For that split second, Harry swears his heart skips a beat and he stops breathing.

These days, they feel closer than ever to the end of this thing. There are no definite plans or dates set on the calendar, but there’s a shift in Louis’ demeanor, the way he speaks about New York and makes reference to moving. It feels like the first break of light at the end of a long, dark tunnel, a ray of hope that the maybes will someday soon turn to definitelys. 

As Harry leans back against the island, Louis chasing his lips with a smile that could rival the stars, he thinks of these early afternoon makeouts, laughing into one another’s mouths. He thinks of them in every room, in every season, in every lifetime.

x

Two weeks after Louis’ left, Harry grabs his mail on the way into his apartment, fresh from a Saturday morning spin class. He pulls his t-shirt away from his chest and stomach, clinging to his skin with sweat derived from exertion and the humidity that’s already blanketed New York City despite it only being mid-May. There’s loads of junk mail in his hands - a flyer for a pizzeria, coupons for some grocery store he never goes to, credit card offers. But at the bottom of the pile is a single envelope addressed to Louis Tomlinson, nondescript and nonthreatening, like it’s right where it’s supposed to be.

Harry’s brows immediately furrow and he begins to open the edge of the flap before he realizes what he’s doing and stops abruptly. If it’s been sent to Louis, it’s none of his business, even if it  _ does  _ hold his own address beneath Louis’ name. That, and it’s a felony to open someone else’s mail. That someone else may be his boyfriend, but Harry will  _ not _ be a felon.

He sorts the junk into the recycling as he steps into the kitchen, his opened bills left behind on the coffee table to pay later. Louis’ mystery envelope is set in the center of his island, taunting him and begging for a peek. Harry refuses to give in; he has no idea why this envelope has arrived at his address for Louis, but he will not betray his trust or privacy to serve his own curiosity.

“No,” he says, walking away and straight for the shower. 

By the time he gets out, scrubbed clean and fresh, he’s forgotten all about the surprise in his mail, distracted by a couple missed texts, one from Louis.

_ Louis (11:33PM): have to cancel our facetime date tonite. last min shift - sorry babe. need the $$ _

Harry sighs heavily, staring at his phone in his hands as he takes a seat on the end of his bed. There are some days he’s convinced himself that he’ll survive this, that they’re almost to the end and closer every day. But the moments he’s caught off guard with a change in plans or an unexpected spat, he has no idea how he’s made it this far already. The disappointment spreads across his chest and settles heavily in the pit of his stomach, heavy as stone. He locks his phone and stares out his bedroom window, the curtains billowing and dancing with the gentle draft and absorbing all his attention.

_Harry (11:47PM):_ _No worries. Good shift x_

x

Later that evening, Harry’s sat on his couch with his laptop and work spread all around him, a take out container of lo mein forgotten on the coffee table. He’d given up on staying in the office the night before when the clock had hit 9PM and instead took everything home, resigning himself to a weekend of work. His hair is a mess from a nap on the sofa after his spin class and he’s got on ratty sweats and glasses, but no one is around to see him and he’s comfortable. There’s a frown on his face as he reads over a clause in one of the contracts, trying to puzzle out if it needs to be in there or if he can scrap it altogether. 

A knock on the door startles him and he nearly chucks his laptop clean across the room as he looks up, eyeing the door. He’s not expecting a delivery or any visitors, so he stares curiously for a solid minute until another knock urges him from his seat.

“You’ve the wrong apartment!” he calls on his way to the door. He opens it just a crack to see who’s on the other side, his eyes surely deceiving him.

“Surprise!” Louis shouts, shouldering a duffle bag.

Harry’s mouth is still open like a fish, dumbfounded at how Louis’ here, in front of him, when he’s supposed to be in Sturgeon Bay, working a shift. “How… you… what?” Harry sputters.

“Got you so good,” Louis says, grinning from ear to ear, entirely smug. He steps in and around Harry when he backs out of the way.

Harry shakes his head as he shuts the door behind him. Only then does he remember the mess spread across his living room and what he himself looks like. So much for no one being around to see him. “I thought you were working!”

“I lied,” Louis laughs, dropping his duffle to the floor. “I’m only here for tonight, but I missed you. Felt spontaneous. And Delta was having a deal.”

Harry is still standing in the middle of his living room, trying to process that his boyfriend just flew halfway across the country for one night. For  _ him _ . He simultaneously feels like laughing deliriously and bursting into tears, the weight of the gesture laying warm and heavy around Harry’s heart. No one’s ever done something like this for him before and managed to pull it off. No one’s ever done something like this for him before,  _ period _ .

“Louis…” he trails, pushing his reading glasses up into his hair. “Fuck, I love you.”

He crosses the room before Louis even has the chance to return the sentiment, his hands cupping either side of Louis’ face as he crushes his lips against his, all his disbelief poured into the kiss. Louis’ hands twist in the sides of his hoodie as he parts his lips under Harry’s, groaning as their tongues meet briefly. He nearly buckles right in front of Harry.

“That alone would’ve been worth it,” Louis whispers, breathless, his cheeks flushed.

Harry smiles and rubs their noses together, drawing Louis into his chest to hug him close around the shoulders. “Can’t believe you’re here,” he murmurs, lips against the side of Louis’ head.

“Did I interrupt anything?” Louis asks as he glances over his shoulder to the pile of documents Harry had just been sitting in.

Harry shakes his head, letting him go briefly to sweep everything into a folder and set it aside. “Just work. Not important.”

“‘Not important,’” Louis playfully mocks, using air quotes. “Sounds important. Looks like you were really absorbed by it.” He gestures to Harry’s general state of disheveledness.

“I’ve just been inside most of the day,” Harry chuckles, sheepish as he looks down at himself. There’s a spot of sauce on his sweats from a dropped noodle earlier and he rubs at it with the tips of his fingers.

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Let’s get out of here then. Have a walk,” he suggests.

“Don’t you want to relax? You just got here,” Harry says as he folds up the abandoned container of lo mein to stuff in the fridge. 

“It’s only a two hour flight, H. Besides, it’s pretty nice out. Much warmer here than home.” Louis smiles and wiggles his fingers for Harry’s as he backs towards the door.

They end up wandering around the East Village with no destination in mind, slow enough that they get passed several times on the sidewalk. Harry still feels like he’s living in the middle of a fever dream, his evening of pouring over contracts replaced with Louis’ hand in his. Louis was right, as it turns out, the night cool as twilight falls, but still warm enough to be comfortable in a light sweatshirt. It feels good to get out of his apartment, to stretch his legs, his earlier despondent mood around their canceled Facetime date long forgotten.

Harry tugs Louis’ hand to a stop when they end up in front of Davey’s, a trendy little ice cream shop on the loop they’ve made back towards his apartment. 

“Want an ice cream? My treat,” Harry offers.

Louis nods enthusiastically, sweet tooth always present. “Fuck yeah. Was kinda actually thinking this walk was missing ice cream,” he laughs.

The flavors are twists on the classics - strong coffee, roasted pistachio, speculoos chocolate chip - and he knows Louis wants to scoff, make a quip about how everything in New York City has to appeal to hipsters. Harry doesn’t miss the unimpressed look he shoots the chalkboard behind the counter as he surveys his choices. In the end, Harry goes for two scoops of strong coffee and Louis settles on fresh strawberry, both choices stacked into a waffle cone. 

“How is it?” Harry asks when they depart, both preoccupied with licking their cones.

Louis pauses a moment before cracking a smile. “It’s pretty fucking good, not gonna lie. Even if it’s just glorified strawberry ice cream.”

“It’s  _ fresh _ strawberry,” Harry insists, walking at a snail’s pace as he makes sure none of his ice cream drips down his hand. Not that it would make a difference; he’s still wearing his lo mein stained sweats and is slightly horrified. “Everything else is artificial, but they use real strawberries!”

Louis looks at him with the same disinterested expression he’d given the flavor board. “How’s yours then?”

“Really good. Actually tastes like coffee and not just coffee milk,” Harry chuckles. He holds his cone out to Louis for a taste just as Louis does the same, both of them laughing.

“Guess we had the same idea,” Louis laughs as he leans over first, grabbing Harry’s wrist to hold his hand steady as he licks over the cone. “Mm! Good. Wish I’d gotten that one.”

“Want the rest? I kind of want to trade,” Harry says, hopeful. He knows exactly how to smile, turn his toes in, to get his way.

Louis rolls his eyes, but immediately concedes, handing over his ice cream. “Dunno why you even bother asking when you know I’m gonna say yes,” he says, his smile more amused than annoyed. “Such a sucker, I am.”

They swap cones and by the time they’ve reached the steps of Harry’s building, they’re sticky and riding a sugar high, laughing hard enough to make their stomachs ache. The joke is lost on both of them now, no recollection of how it started, but they wheeze with laughter all the way through the apartment door. When Harry sees the folder stacked on his coffee table, he realizes just how fast this night took an unexpected turn. It fills him with renewed gratitude as they drop to the couch together, Harry tucking himself into Louis’ side as he rolls his shoulders in until he’s small enough to fit. 

“This was pretty romantic,” Harry comments, nuzzling into Louis’ chest. He wraps an arm around his waist, comforted by the solidity of Louis’ body against his own.

Louis huffs, but he’s smiling. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Harry chuckles, closing his eyes as he relaxes, head to toe, a luxury he feels he only has when he’s right beside Louis.

They spend the rest of the night on the couch, flipping channels with little interest, most of their attention on one another. As the hours pass, they change positions several times, Louis laying down with his head in Harry’s lap until Harry moves horizontal as well and they tangle up. It’s close to 1AM when they finally drag themselves to bed, but Harry’s not ready to shut his eyes and turn himself over to sleep, not when the timer on Louis’ abbreviated visit is already clocking down.

For a while, they just lay in bed staring at one another under the fairy lights. Harry touches Louis’ face delicately, tracing his cheekbone with his thumb and admiring the shadow that forms just beneath it in the soft lighting. Louis often pretends to be all bark and bite, but Harry’s lucky enough to know him like this, intimately, his guard down and inhibitions set aside. He doesn’t even protest as Harry stares at him, just blinks tiredly, languid, as he stares back, mesmerized by one another. 

Harry’s body aches for him, itching to feel his skin against his own, but he knows they’re both on the verge of sleep, his own eyes closing when Louis’ finally lose the battle.

x

Harry’s reminded of a morning a few weeks past when he wakes, Louis’ side of the bed vacant and cold, like he’s been gone for hours. Unlike the first time, he remembers that Louis’ flight isn’t until later that evening, so there’s no chance he’s left without saying goodbye. Besides, Harry’s certain Louis knows he’d send him back to Wisconsin for good if he ever robbed him of the opportunity to see him off. He checks his phone and sees a text from Louis, received an hour earlier.

_ Louis (9:46AM): back soon will bring lunch x _

When Louis does return, it’s early afternoon. Harry’s sat at the dining room table with all of his work spread out before him, looking the same as he did the previous night, though he’s showered and void of any stained lounge clothes. He’s working through his pile of documents, crunching on baby carrots and hummus absently, and when he looks up, he realizes he’s eaten almost the entire bag in his boredom.

“Going to turn into a rabbit,” Louis tells him as he drops a kiss to his temple on his way by. He’s got a bag in hand and he sets out two sandwiches, still warm from being toasted in the oven. “Just got Italian subs. Hope that’s cool.”

“Considering I’ve just been eating carrots… very cool,” Harry agrees, reaching for his to unwrap. He tries not to sound accusatory when he asks, “Where were you?”

Louis takes a bite of his sandwich and Harry sees it for what it is - he’s avoiding answering him. “Just woke up early. Decided to have a look around again,” he says.

Harry frowns, his sandwich held in his hands, still unbitten. Louis’ lying and Harry knows he is, can tell by the twitch in his jaw and the way he’s far more focused on picking up fallen bits of cheese than looking at Harry. Under normal circumstances, Harry would call him out and demand an answer, more hurt by the lying than he’d likely be if Louis just told him the truth. But, like all of Louis’ short lived visits, he doesn’t want to cause an argument and waste the time they’ve got together now. He keeps his mouth shut and instead takes a bite of his sandwich.

“This place is good. I’ll have to go there again,” Harry says as he flips the paper wrapping back to read the name of the deli. “Never even heard of it.” 

“Forget where it was, actually. Kind of just wandered until I found somewhere that looked good,” Louis says, finally glancing up. He offers up a smile that doesn’t look deceitful or dishonest, just pleased that Harry’s enjoying his sandwich enough to want to visit the deli again.

But later, long after Louis’ left and his apartment is once again quiet, nothing but his contracts to keep him company, Harry searches for the deli and finds it in Harlem. 

Eight miles from the East Village.

x

Louis’ deception stays with him all week. When he should be focusing on presentations and client meetings, he finds himself staring out the expanse of windows to the sprawling skyline, lost in thought. He can’t fathom why Louis would have made the trek all the way to Harlem, let alone fib about it. It bothers Harry, previously certain that their relationship was built on honesty. When he spends too long dwelling, he actually feels like he may be sick, the lie lining his stomach like battery acid. 

It’s Wednesday evening when Louis calls him. They’d arranged for a Facetime date, but Harry’s distraction all week had left him behind on deadlines. There’s a part of him that doesn’t even mind being trapped in his office, standing Louis up. He never would have dreamed of doing such a thing, the very thought making his stomach roil, but as his eyes dart to his vibrating phone, Harry presses the ignore button and flips it face down. It hurts, makes him feel more nauseous than the dishonesty itself, but he has no idea what to say to Louis and he knows he’ll see right through him the moment Harry says hello. He doesn’t have the energy to duck and weave Louis’ inevitable questions right now. 

By Friday, though, he’s avoided two more phone calls and replied to only one of several texts with a brief,  _ Busy. Sorry x _ . Louis doesn’t text him after that, radio silence until Sunday morning when his phone breaks the Do Not Disturb from the incessant calls coming in. It’s only 7:38AM, so Harry rolls over with a start, concern flooding his chest that there’s been some sort of accident, an emergency he’s missed. He doesn’t even look at the caller ID before he answers. 

“Hello?” he asks, voice rough with sleep and bleeding with worry. 

“Done avoiding me, are you?” Louis shoots back, his voice tight. Harry can hear his anger, but more present is the hurt that races right through, slapping Harry in the face. 

It’s far too early for Louis to be awake, especially on a Sunday, and Harry has the sneaking suspicion that he hasn’t been sleeping. He swallows. “Lou… can this wait? It’s early. Go back to sleep.”

“No, it can’t,” Louis spits. He pauses before continuing, tone running soft with anguish. “Harry, what’s going on?”

Harry’s a terrible liar. He knows it and everyone around him knows it, particularly Louis. “Nothing… just fell behind with work. I’ve been working late and I’m exhausted and I think I might be coming down with something,” he rambles.

Louis doesn’t answer immediately, just breathes steadily on the other end of the line. Harry knows he’s waiting him out, giving him the opportunity to come clean and be truthful. The irony isn’t lost on Harry. 

“Right,” Louis finally says. “Sorry I woke you then.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut so tight that he sees spots behind his eyelids, the lump in his throat threatening tears. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure. Feel better,” Louis says flatly.

Harry doesn’t even get to say goodbye, the line going dead as he opens his mouth. 

x

Harry’s meetings finish early the following Thursday and though he has loads of work, as always, sitting on his desk, he leaves late afternoon to take advantage of the first day that tops over 70 degrees. He walks home and takes the long way, swinging by Whole Foods to pick up a variety of fresh produce to hodgepodge together for dinner. He’s got a Facetime date with Louis tonight and the approach of summer, subtle in the scent that carries on the air, has Harry in a good mood, the best one he’s been in all week. 

Over the last week, Harry’s made a solid effort to respond to Louis’ texts and answer his calls. It’s never required him to try before, but his first instinct is to still avoid the situation at all costs. Tense at the start, conversations clipped and short, they’ve slowly mended the rift between them. It’s still tender, but the anxiety attached has ebbed away and things almost feel normal again. Harry knows he needs to just let the whole thing go and move on; whatever it was Louis was doing, it was clearly not important enough to mention. 

On his way in, he collects his mail, tucking it into his elbow as he juggles his paper bags from Whole Foods. There’s only a food magazine he subscribes to and a cell phone bill, nothing unusual except the yellow sticker across the latter, stamped with  _ mail forwarding _ . His eyes skip to the address, his own, but his name is nowhere to be found, replaced instead with  _ Louis Tomlinson _ .

“What in the hell…” he trails off. He tosses the phone bill with the other plain envelope that had arrived on Saturday, still sat in the center of his countertop. Louis had swept in for his 24-hour visit and Harry hadn’t even thought of the envelope, had completely forgotten to mention it to him.

The whole time he prepares his dinner, a fresh medley of vegetables topped with grilled chicken, his eyes dart to the mail sitting on the island. He nearly slices a finger in his distraction and counts it as a victory when he finishes without bleeding or burning himself. Right on time, Louis rings him as he sits down to eat.

“Hi, love,” Louis chirps. They haven’t spoken in a day or two, aside from a text here and there, but Louis seems to be in an oddly cheerful mood. 

Harry fixes a smile on his face, waving his fingertips from around his fork. “Hi, baby. Good day?”

“Good day,” Louis agrees with a nod, smile matching Harry’s. “‘s nice to see you. Missed you. Missed your face.”

“Missed yours more,” Harry tells him as he takes his first bite of dinner.

Louis shakes his head. “Not possible. Sorry. I’ve served a full bar every night this week and none of my customers were you, so I win this one, gorgeous.”

“Sweet talker,” Harry says, fondness all over his face.

Louis grins, wide with triumph, but Harry interrupts his pat on his own back. “Hey, listen. Something odd has been happening. Not sure if you know anything about it?”

“What’s up?” Louis asks curiously, eyebrows raising into his fringe.

Harry holds up both of the envelopes. “You’ve been getting mail to my apartment,” he chuckles. “Don’t know how that’s happened, but I just wanted to let you know. Might be important.”

“Shit,” Louis sighs, dropping his head so that Harry can’t see his face in the frame.

Harry frowns in confusion. “What?”

“This isn’t how I meant for you to find out,” Louis says, lifting his face as he rubs a hand across his jaw and up his cheek. “I didn’t think it’d be that fast!”

“Lou, what are you on about?” Harry asks, puzzled.

Louis sucks in a breath. “I… about a month or two ago? I took a poke around, you know, some job sites. Just to look. There actually were a lot of opportunities for an experienced teacher’s aid. More than I thought there would be. Especially in some of the schools that are struggling. Underprivileged. Some were looking for loads more experience, but I thought, why not go for it, you know what I mean? If I’m doing this… shoot big.”

Harry swallows thickly, staring so intently at his phone that he’s certain his eyes are as big as saucers. He doesn’t say anything, though, letting Louis explain at his own pace without interruption. 

“So I applied, yeah? There was one in Harlem that seemed like a good fit. And well, phone interviews. Background checks. The works. But I… got it? Yeah, I got it,” Louis says, his voice high like the breath’s been punched from his lungs, like he’s still absorbing and processing this information himself. 

“You got it?!” Harry yells, his eyes clouding with tears so fast that Louis’ image dissolves to a blurry blob of color.

“I fucking got it!” Louis laughs like he can hardly believe it himself. 

Harry shakes his head, dinner forgotten and his stomach turning not with fear or upset or stress, but the overwhelming excitement that he never could have anticipated. The rational part of his brain urges him to calm down and to think logically, so he inhales steadily and wipes his thumbs beneath his eyes. “What does this mean?”

“Means I’m moving to New York City,” Louis tells him. He grins so wide that his eyes disappear, just the way Harry loves, pure happiness flanked with relief.

Harry can’t help it. He nearly screams right there in his kitchen, months of long distance and fights and frustration coming to a head. Their fate, hanging unknown in the balance, finally determined. Harry swears his heart opens up and sings in his chest. Before he can stop himself, he’s fully sobbing, shoulders slumped towards his dinner and his head in his hands. 

“Oh love…” Louis trails, though Harry can hear the emotion lining his own voice. “Are you alright?”

Harry nods so fast he’s just a blur on Louis’ phone, hiccuping as the tears roll into the collar of his shirt. “I’m just so fucking relieved. I never thought this would happen,” he admits. 

“Have a little faith in me, darling,” Louis chuckles. “I’m rather shit at staying away from you.” 

Harry laughs and wipes at his face with his palms, no doubt a blotchy, unattractive mess. “I was actually starting to think about moving back to Wisconsin,” he tells him. 

“What? No, I would never let you do that.  _ Ever _ . Not even for me,” Louis says firmly. 

Harry shrugs and takes a deep breath, sniffling as he calms down. “Wanted to be with you,” he says simply, the only explanation that’s ever mattered to him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Louis looks bashful, scooting down further in his bed. “It’s stupid, but I didn’t want to jinx it. Or get your hopes up for no reason. I wanted to be certain everything was going to work out before I said anything.”

“Still. You could have told me,” Harry says, working in earnest to keep the pout from his voice. “I could have helped.”

Louis snorts, but it’s gentle. “You would have been devastated if I told you and it didn’t happen.”

This time Harry doesn’t bother to hide his sulking, but he doesn’t deny it, knowing as well as Louis does that he’s right. He takes a deep breath, absorbing everything he’s just learned in the last three minutes. It’s only then that he starts to put two and two together. “Is that… you were in Harlem over the weekend, weren’t you? You weren’t walking around.”

“I was, yeah. Went up to meet the staff and have an informal second interview,” Louis admits. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Was still a bit up in the air at that point. Only just found out yesterday.”

“Knew you were lying to me,” Harry says, but all his previous anger is replaced with pure elation now that he has the full picture.

Louis furrows his brow. “Is that what all that rubbish was about then?”

“I thought you were keeping something from me! You  _ were _ keeping something from me,” Harry says, hands flailing dramatically and then crossing over his chest stubbornly. “When would you move?”

“Well, I officially start next school year, but I offered to pull up my employment to help with the kids in summer school,” Louis says, reaching across for something sitting on his nightstand. He holds up the offer letter by his face, smiling like a kid with straight A’s that’s about to cash in his report card for a reward. “They e-mailed me this copy, but I bet one of those envelopes is the official offer letter. I kinda put your address down.”

“So… you’re moving here? Like, in with me?” Harry asks tentatively. 

Louis sets his letter down and looks back in frame at Harry. “It doesn’t have to be permanent. Just until I find something else. I should make enough to cover at least some of your mortgage.”

“Lou, no. Of course I want you to move in with me. If that’s what you want. You don’t have to go anywhere else,” Harry says immediately, shaking his head. He’s been smiling this whole time, just aware of it now by the ache in his cheeks. “And you don’t have to pay -“

Louis cuts him off with a pointed glare. “We talked about this, H. I want to be able to contribute. I’m going to no matter what. Even if I have to leave cash in your shoes.”

Harry laughs, conceding. “Fine, we’ll figure it out. As long as it means you’re here with me. So sooner rather than later then?”

Louis nods. “As soon as I can get my shit packed. Think I’m gonna rent a small truck and drive it there. Rope Liam or Niall into coming with me.”

“Does your family know?” Harry asks, worrying at his lip with his teeth. 

Louis smiles, glancing away towards his bedroom door with affection. “Yeah, they know,” he says. “I had a long conversation with my mom before I officially accepted. She put me at ease, you know? That it’s time I start making decisions for myself. Live my own life. She was really supportive. And my sisters are excited to visit. Mostly to go shopping.”

Harry laughs, nodding as he folds his arms and leans forward on the island. “Well, this is the place to be. Fashion capital of the world.”

“Don’t tell them that,” Louis jokes. As he leans back against his headboard, he looks relieved, relaxed. “They’ll be demanding I let them spend my first paycheck.”

“Can’t believe it’s happening,” Harry says, nudging his plate out of the way, dinner abandoned. 

Louis chuckles. “Me either. I thought it was a joke when they called me and said I got it.”

“You’re amazing, baby. Of course you got it,” Harry encourages. “They’d have been silly not to hire you.”

Louis rolls his eyes, lips pulled up in a crooked smile. “You’re incredibly biased, you know?”

“I just love you. And I know everyone else will too,” Harry says firmly. “Change my mind. You won’t.”

Louis laughs. “You’re ridiculous. Go eat dinner. I’ve to take the twins for frozen yogurt anyway. They’ve really been using the whole ‘once you move, we won’t have anyone to take us’ thing to their advantage since they found out.”

“Clever ones, they are. Just like their brother,” Harry says, laughing himself as he reaches for his plate again. His dinner has gone cold by now, so he gets up to put it in the microwave. “Go on, love.”

“Love you, baby. I’ll text you when I get home,” Louis says, kissing his fingertips and letting them land on the screen. 

“Lou?” Harry says, turning over his shoulder. 

Louis hums, pausing from hanging up. “Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you.”

x

Louis moves to New York in late June. 

He arrives after a 15 hour drive that he split with both Niall and Liam, neither backing down when Louis asked for  _ a  _ volunteer (singular). All three look tired and sweaty and stale, circles under their eyes and like they never want to see a truck again, let alone sit in one. Despite their exhaustion, they all appear to be in good spirits, particularly Louis, who beams up at Harry and waves when he emerges from the driver’s side. Harry had raced down the stairs the moment he saw the truck pull up and bounce over the curb, not at all shocked to see Louis was the culprit behind the wheel. He’d eagerly awaited their arrival, texting whoever wasn’t driving at the time for an update on their location and the ETA the navigation was currently showing.

They unload the boxes one by one into the complex lobby, shuffling them into the elevator to shuttle to Harry’s apartment. He’s spent the last couple of weeks clearing out his space, making room for new things that Louis will undoubtedly unpack. Harry’s never shared an apartment with someone, save for his tiny dorm at NYU, but he’s not at all worried about it, finds himself eager to come home to Louis’ mess and disarray. It’s less an annoyance than a reminder, a daily reassurance, that they live here together now. What was once  _ his _ apartment will now become  _ their _ apartment, a place curated by each of them that will reflect them both.

When the last of the boxes are settled inside, Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ waist from behind and ignores Louis’ protests that he’s a sweaty, unshowered animal. 

“Don’t care,” Harry says. He leaves several kisses to the side of Louis’ neck to prove his point, not at all shying away from the taste of salt on his skin. “Welcome home, baby.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, but he sags back in Harry’s arms and closes his eyes. His relief is palpable and Harry holds him closer, a reminder to himself that this moment he’s dreamed of for weeks turned to months has finally solidified itself in reality. 

Niall interrupts the moment when he comes stomping in with a six pack, Liam hot on his heels. “We celebrating or what, boys?”

They gather in the kitchen to share a beer together, clinking four bottlenecks in a toast. After an afternoon of hauling boxes, it’s a welcome break and they stand around the island for an hour, nursing their beers and catching up. Niall’s also started a new job that’s come with a decent pay raise and Liam is still seeing Zayn, is thinking about asking him  to move in as well. There’s a sense of normalcy that settles into the kitchen around them, like they’ve been doing this for years, like this is how it’s always been. Harry feels settled, grounded, in a way he hasn’t since Christmas. When he thinks back to the holidays now, they feel like a lifetime ago, like he and Louis are completely different people now than they were in December.

When the conversation peters off to a natural silence, Niall clears his throat and slides his empty bottle onto the island. “Well, we’ll be off. One of my buddies in Brooklyn agreed to let us crash before we fly back tomorrow.”

“You could’ve stayed with us!” Harry protests. 

Liam and Niall exchange a look before turning both sets of eyes back on Harry. “Not sure if we wanna be in the next room over tonight,” Liam says. 

Louis rolls his eyes, but Niall mimics him right back. “Don’t act like you’re not gonna fuck all over this place the second we’re out the door,” he shoots.

“Alright, that’s enough of you two. Get out of my apartment,” Louis says, shooing them both around the maze of boxes. Harry has to hide the grin that threatens his face against his shoulder at Louis’ use of _my_ _apartment_.

At the door, Harry hugs them both after Louis’ squeezed them in a death grip, thanking them profusely for their help and seeing Louis to New York safely. 

“He’s a terrible driver. Lucky we made it alive,” Niall jokes. He yelps when Louis throws a fist, punching him in the arm in retaliation.

“Miracle. Thank god he won’t be driving here,” Harry agrees. He blinks innocently at Louis with what he hopes is a sweet enough smile to let him off this time. “Good flight back as well, yeah? Visit soon.”

They send them off from the doorway of the apartment, watching them retreat down the hall until they disappear into the elevator, waving until the last possible second. 

And then they’re alone, amongst the boxes, the last ten, twenty years of Louis’ life packed away and ready for their new home. They both look at the piles surrounding them, overwhelmed, and glance to one another at the same time. 

“Pizza and sex first?” Louis says. 

Harry just laughs and nods, the dimple deep in his cheek matching back to the crinkles by Louis’ eyes.

They have the rest of their lives to unpack.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
